This one is not Rochu. The last one is. This is on Fruk, and the children. xD

Just as he had thought, life as a nation was not all birds and bees for England. Too many meetings to attend. Too much saving face. And not to mention, palace food made him constipated.

But, he wasn't going to go as far to condemn the bastard who had convinced him to come out of hiding. France was right— England could not hide from his problems forever. So, he had decided patch things up with his boss and moved back to the palace. Two hundred years had passed since then, and he still refused to admit that he made a good decision returning to his old life.

It was Sunday morning, and he was sitting in front of the table in France's dining room, waiting impatiently for the food that was taking too long to make. They had made an agreement that France was going to treat him breakfast every Sunday morning, which was what they had done for the past century or two. England deemed punctuality a holy virtue, and also would not dare to pass up such a bargain. Though, the true reason why he visited chez France erred slightly more to the latter.

Of course, he would never admit that the bastard's culinary skills were tantamount to his own. No! He refused to admit it!

Rip.

England stared down at the handkerchief that his two white-knuckled hands had torn asunder. Hoping that France didn't hear, he hurriedly stuffed the pieces of white cloth into his coat pocket, and resorted to twirling his thumbs and tapping his feet to mime impatience.

So, why did they do it on Sunday mornings? Well, it was when everyone in both of their countries went to church to become spiritually enlightened. Which meant, England and France were allowed to have some time off, since it wasn't mandatory for them to be a party to this ecclesiastical furore, or, according to England, realize this ridiculous oxymoron.

It was nice, even if it was only for a few hours, and the free food was just a bonus.

But, having been acquainted with France's cooking for a while now, and being ever the perfectionist, England couldn't help but notice France's utter refusal to perfectionism. There was always something that didn't taste right.

"Francis, the wine is a little sour."

"There is nothing wrong with the wine, dear. It is supposed to taste like that."

"Like cat piss?"

"God had meant to create wine that tastes like so. It is your own sorry taste buds that are mistaken, dear. He created the best of all possible worlds, and therefore, the best of all possible flavours of wine."

"Well, to be candid, don't you think He would strike you down for having used his name as an excuse for your own blasphemous culinary skills?" Arthur tried to reason.

"...Perhaps." Francis shrugged, smirking darkly, as the glasses clinked together in a toast.

Of course, on the days when he would burn the eggs, Francis would debate with Arthur over the nature of "cause" and "effect". It was never Francis' fault that the eggs were burnt; it was the universe's. On those days, Arthur often ended up staying longer than he had intended, because he couldn't find it in himself to agree with Francis. Ever.

So, Arthur's weekly visits were also partly due to his curiosity.

What are they going to talk about today? He couldn't help but wonder.

Francis walked into the dining room holding a plate of crescent-shaped pastries, and carefully set them on the table. Tendrils of butter-scented smoke escaped from the pile of food, as they were fresh out of the oven. Francis had always made them bacon, eggs, and cheese, and he knew that Arthur welcomed change like an old spinster.

Instead of pouting his lips in displeasure, Arthur nodded his head amusedly and gazed up at Francis. "Kipferls," he noted, "Why a sudden change?" He recognized them from when he visited the Germanic states a few years back. They were a popular folk dessert.

"No, no, no~" Francis said in a sing-song voice, winking and wagging his finger, "Not 'kipferls'. Croissants."

"Your new recipe, I presume?" He asked, picking one up and taking a bite. Arthur chewed, pondered for a few seconds, and decided that his scones were better. He personally preferred the dry, charcoal taste over the sweet and creamy.

"Of course. I take what isn't yours, and make it mine~"

They ate their in unusual silence. Francis was busy savouring the taste of his artistry, while Arthur was trying to sift through the contents of their meal in search of the fatal flaw, or conversation prompt, that sneaky Francis had stowed away.

And, just as both men were going to take the last croissant on the plate, their hands met. Arthur, because he refused to give up, and Francis, because he was hungry. Simultaneously, they retreated their hands back onto their laps, and stared at each other blankly, as if competing to see who had the better poker face.

Arthur took the baton. "Why, Francis, do you believe that you deserve the last kipferl?"

"I deserve the last croissant, because I am a growing country, and I need my nourishment," he explained lightly, "I had just gotten over a terrible cold that almost killed me, and I certainly am not going to allow myself to starve to death." For an added thespian effect, he placed a hand on his forehead and sighed.

Arthur rolled his eyes. He had lost interest in this discussion, and chose not to speak.

Francis had been waiting for Arthur to give him another turn to speak, and began his speech.

"I was thinking, my dear. Why must we be forced to lay low in the realm of theoretics, when there are greener pastures elsewhere?" Francis stood up and strolled to where Arthur was sitting, "We are such cowards, that all we ever do is talk, and don't do anything! I am getting blisters between my sweet lips from wasting all my words on you!"

He leaned his face in for a kiss, to which Arthur gave the back of his ringed hand.

Francis recovered from the blow shamelessly and continued his soliloquy, "Instead, let's ask the nations of the world who is the better between us..."

"Are you implying that we go to war again?" Arthur's voice plummeted into a dangerous tone.

"No, of course not!" France replied, laying a hand upon his chest, faking hurt, "Why would you think such a thing?" He draped his arms over his friend's shoulders, "I meant," he chuckled huskily into Arthur's ear, "Well, you know what I mean."

He did.

Pushing Francis aside and rubbing the ear that had been tainted by his moist, smelly breath, he said, "Very well. Meet me at the dock first thing tomorrow."

Francis stood up, straightened his blouse, and nodded. "Good man," he said, patting Arthur on the shoulder twice.

The New World now looked nothing like the brutish wilderness on which England and France were forced to set their boots, a few decades ago. The land had finally been tamed of savagery, the trees trimmed, the beasts defeated. A few sparse villages dotted along the St. Lawrence river, with two different red, white, and blue flags billowing on opposite banks. The villages all looked so similar from each other, all with a church and a few wooden cabins. Children were told by their prudish, and often superstitious parents to never venture out of their sight. Though, no one could blame them. The winters here showed no mercy, and invasions of feathered men came as often as thunderstorms.

But despite that, France thought that the colonies were a nice place to live. He, England, and the children chose to settle in one of the many cabins. He made a simple, but sufficient living from the fur trade. It was enough to feed and clothe them, and France had learned that this was all that mattered. The last time he tasted wine was five months ago, when his boss had asked him to come back to do some paperwork, and not to mention, he couldn't remember the last time he bathed with rose petals, or bathed at all.

As the years went by, France had forgotten why they had come here in the first place. Back in Europe, England and France had been so consumed with their bosses' demands that they could only manage to see each other once a week for a few short hours. Well, unless they were at war, of course.

Speaking of war, France had noticed that ever since they settled here, they have become masters at swordplay. There weren't many opportunities to practice before. Too many horses, cannon fodder, and not to mention, the centuries of pent-up anger that stood in the way. What had once been used to bring harm had now become a hobby, an art. France had conveniently hung on their swords on the wall, so that whenever they disagreed on something, the swords would always be there, polished and ready.

France grinned to himself. Why couldn't they have come to the New World earlier?

"Hey," said the voice of a little boy who was sitting beside England.

England chose to ignore the snivelling little thing, seeing no purpose in encouraging it.

"Hey!" the snivelling little thing said more loudly, tugging at his sleeve, "Stop ignoring me old man!"

England felt a vein pop on the side of his head. But, he told himself that one must invest patience and love when raising a child. Though, he had always believed that casting muting spells served the same purpose.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to his adopted son. "What is it, Alfred?" He growled through his teeth, trying to restrain himself from going ballistic. They were at the dinner table, for Merlin's sake!

"What's Frenchie making for breakfast? Smells good, and I'm friggin' starving!" Alfred whined, smacking his arms ungracefully upon the table.

Before Arthur opened his mouth, he mentally laid out all of the things he wanted to say to the boy all at once, and sorted through them.

He wanted to tell him to stop calling his father a "Frenchie", because Alfred was supposed to have been raised into virtuous, loyal young man, who didn't judge other people due to their different cultural backgrounds. Besides, only Arthur got to insult Francis.

He also wanted to tell him to take his elbows off the table and sit up straight. Not that it would help, because Arthur had accepted that the kid was a helpless cause. He just hoped Francis wouldn't dwell forevermore upon the fact that Arthur had lost their bet.

Furthermore, he wanted to tell Alfred that Matthew, who was also sitting at the table, was so much better of a son than he ever was. Respectful, well-mannered, and most importantly, quiet.

Also, Arthur wanted to grab Alfred by the collar, shake him senseless, and tell the delinquent how much he regretted the day he saved him from freezing to death in a forest.

Arthur supposed that maybe he just wasn't meant to be a parent. Francis had his son that, over the years, had been spun into a golden boy, while Arthur had his... Thing. Maybe one night, he should tell Francis to disqualify this round and find something else to compete in. They could just see who would be the first to reach Asia, or who could give birth to more political philosophers. Something feasible, doable, that would be heck of a lot easier than raising a child.

"Kipferls," was Arthur's brief answer to Alfred's question.

"Hahaha, idiot," Alfred sniggered, punching his old man on the arm, "They're called croissants."

Arthur's left eye began to twitch. But, since he was going to break a record for the longest time elapsed between his temper tantrums, he decided to let this one slide. Revealing to his whole family that he could become more violent than a bitch without her puppies was definitely not the first entry on Arthur's list of priorities.

Matthew, who had been listening all along, remained quiet. He unfolded his napkin and laid it on his lap, as he waited pleasantly and patiently for his meal to arrive. Upon seeing that, Arthur's eye began to twitch even more.

"They're ready!" Francis announced. He waltzed over to the table, and set the steaming tray in front of everyone. Alfred, being the most eager, grabbed a couple with his bare hands and began stuffing them down his throat, much to Arthur's dismay.

Arthur cut a small piece of his own, and placed it in his mouth. It wasn't bad, just like before.

"Mother, will you please pass the maple syrup?" said Matthew quietly, but politely.

How Arthur hated that Matthew's first words of the day had to be... those.

Why did he have to be the mother?

Begrudgingly, he grabbed the bottle beside him and set it on the table next to Matthew, making sure that it didn't land with an angry thump.

"Thank you."

Arthur grunted in reply.

Francis tilted his head up to Arthur. "Would you like to tell me what is bothering you today?" He asked serenely.

"No, I wouldn't."

"Very well then."

The family ate in unusual silence, with the exception of Alfred's occasional burping. One by one, the "croissants" were being consumed, until there was one left, which Matthew seemed to have decided to claim.

"Hey! That's mine!" Alfred shrieked, slapping Matthew's hand away. Matthew quickly retracted his hand to his chest and began to cry, either from the pain, or from the shock of being confronted by his big brother.

Alfred had a tendency to pick on Matthew just for the sake of it.

Arthur shook his head at him disapprovingly, but held his tongue, while Francis placed a hand on Matthew's shoulder, and gave him a look.

Matthew blinked a few times and nodded. "Here, you can have it if you want," he said, though still snivelling a bit.

"Damn right," Alfred humphed, stabbing the pastry with his fork and taking a huge bite, at which Arthur couldn't help but smile.

Note:

- Reference to Voltaire's Candide.