gwenchan: (Default)
gwenchan ([personal profile] gwenchan) wrote2021-03-03 10:06 pm

Strawberries and syrup

 
 
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: HWS Inghilterra/Arthur Kirkland, HWS Francia/Francis Bonnefoy, HWS America/Alfred F. Jones, HWS Canada/Matthew Williams
Rating: General
Additional Tag: Alternate Universe_Human, Slice of life, Fluff
Promtp: Qualcosa di dolce
 
Of the many traditions the Bonnefoy-Kirkland household has developed over their years of life together, Sunday afternoon snack - or five o'clock high tea as Arthur insist on calling it, is probably the most cherished.
 
"Kiku gave me the recipe last week," Francis says while placing a perfectly baked strawberry shortcake at the centre of the table. "I trust it'll be delicious," adds, modesty, both false and true, not part of his vocabulary. 
 
" It looks great dad," Alfred perks up, his enormous blue eyes going even bigger.
 
"Not all that looks good is nice," Arthur reprimands from his corner, one eye to the stove, the other perusing the pantry and his vast tea collection to choose what would go best with a shortcake. Something delicate, surely, which rules out almost all of the black teas. Maybe an earl grey.
 
 
"Don't listen to him, dad," Alfred continues, leaning in it to steal one of the strawberries that decorate the cake. Francis slaps him on the hand with a wooden spoon, gently and playful.
 
"Not yet," he chides but with laughter in his voice, "not until I've cut it and those cups are filled."
 
"But dad is taking forever," Alfred whines, slugging back into his chair with his mouth slacking open in a very dramatic fashion. "Right, Matt?"
 
Sitting at the other side, Matthew nods with resignation, knowing too well by now it's easier to agree with his brother when he's like this.
"I'm taking the time needed. And sit properly or no cake for you," Arthur threatens. It's enough for Alfred to sit straight immediately like he had been pinched.
 
 
Arthur nods, then returns to the delicate matter of choosing the tea to match. "Has Kiku said what tea goes well with that?" he calls. He knows their neighbour has a fine knowledge of tea varieties. 
 
"Yes. I knew you'd asked. White tea."
 
"White tea ..."
 
Arthur examines the pantry again. His stock of white teas is not as rich as it is for black teas, green and infusions. Nobody in the family really likes them. It doesn't mean he has none.
Meanwhile, the water in the kettle has reached the right temperature, just below the simmer point. Slowly, Arthur fills the teapot, takes the sugar bowl and the milk jug and puts them all on a trial.
 
"Finally," Alfred exclaims when Arthur puts it on the table, next to the cake. "I'm starving."
 
"I saw you eat three cookies half an hour ago," Matthew comments, with his little but clear voice.
"Precisely. It was half an hour ago," Alfred insists, going silent immediately when noticing the displeasure on both their parents face.
 
"What did we say about snacking between meals," Arthur chides, arms crossed over his chest
"Yes," Francs echoes, "If you are hungry they are healthier options."
 
"I know. But I was really hungry. Sorry," Alfred apologies. Arthur and Francis exchange a quick glance, silently deciding they can close an eye for once. 
 
Francis cuts the shortcake into four slices, equal despite Alfred' protests he wants a bigger one - your eyes are always bigger than your stomach - while Arthur fixes four cups of tea. Not even the time to pass Alfred his one, the boy has already poured half the milk and dropped two enormous spoonfuls of sugar inside.
 
It happened enough times Arthur doesn't feel anymore like dying inside watching how his son treats his tea. Blame it on Francis that insists on giving the boys chocolate milk and ruin their palate.
 
"Matthieu, where are you going?" Francis calls instead, watching Matthew stands up to return to the kitchen. "Oh, I forgot the syrup," the boy answers as if it's something obvious. Immediately horror paints Francis' face. For a moment he had forgotten their eldest' a little obsessive habit of putting maple syrup everywhere. At the orphanage, the nurse said it was probably due to the taste being associated with the few years of when his biological mother was alive and it stuck subconsciously
 
This is why both Arthur and Francis always try their best to close an eye to what was possibly Matthew's only vice. There were exceptions though.
 
"You are not going to put maple syrup on my shortcake," Francis says, adamant. 
 
"It's not your, dad. It's Matthie slice," Alfred jumps up to intervenes to defend his brother. For once, he has a point.
 
"Chantilly cream and strawberries do not mix well with syrup. You are not going to like it" Francis attempts a different approach, to gentle guide Matthew from the syrup instead of forbidding it altogether. 
The boy looks with uncertain, not-at-all convinced eyes, his little lips pursued in a grimace. "But if I don't like it without?"
"That's impossible. It looks amazing," Alfred says. Matthew doesn't look any more convinced. Each Sunday, it's the same scene. One day he'll discover food can be good without syrup, but for now the sweet is as dear to him as the blanket is to Linus.
"What if I don't like it without?"
"Then you will add the syrup and forget the bad taste," Arthur states. "But your father worked hard for that cake and it is not polite to add syrup without having tried at least a bite. You know the rules dear."
 
You know the rules dear
 
"I guess a bite can't hurt," Matthew admits, taking his fork and cutting into the cake. He tries it slowly. First, he takes the strawberry, fresh and juicy, then just a bite of cake; which he tastes as carefully as if he's sure it's going to sting his tongue.
 
For the second bite, he doesn't make such a fuss. "I think I can go without syrup," he announces, with a solemnity that elicits laughter in all the presents. "But I'd still like to try it with syrup."
"He has a point," Alfred adds, who meanwhile has already devoured his slice. "I think I'll try it too," he says.
For Francis' despair, he likes to experiment with the strangest combinations. 
 
Francis makes to protest the future torture of his beautiful cake,  but Arthur stops him gently placing a hand on his arm. "You know how it is," he says neutral from above his fuming cup. 
"They'll grow with no sense of taste and it'll be your fault," Francis pouts. He'd continue his rant if he didn't notice his husband's plate, empty and clean of even the crumbles. 
"And you," he teases, "what was that story that not all that looks good is nice?"
"It impolite to waste food," Arthur replies, stiffy as if he weren't cutting himself a second, abundant slice just then. Both the boys laughed. 
 
"Al, dear, it's your third," Francis says when presented again by the boy's empty and demanding plate. "It was a small slice, dad! And I want to try it with syrup," Alfred insists, adamant in his logic that every food combination must be tried at least once.
"And I think you had enough sugar," Arthur snatches the plate from him. Alfred is already a hyperactive kid without giving him more energies. "And drink your tea," he orders. The boy huffs, dangling his legs under the table. 
"Matt!" he calls, "can you eat a little faster?"
 
Quiet, unassuming, Matthew doesn't even lift his head from the slice he's still eating. At the last bite left on the plate, he watches his parents with pleading eyes. 
"Alright. I think a bite can't hurt. For both of you," Francis concedes, anticipating Arthur's protests with Alfred a bite can hurt and will. Immediately Alfred jumps from his seat to rush to the kitchen; Matthew follows swiftly, always quick when his dear syrup is involved. 
 
Watching the kids experimenting in the kitchen, while a constant cause of heartache for Francis, is also incredibly fascinating. Alfred cut two little pieces of cake and Matthew carefully pours a little dose of syrup on both. 
"And go!" Alfred announces before shoving the bite in his mouth. Matthew, as always, is slower, chewing with great concentration.
 
"I like it. But I think it's better without syrup," it's his final verdict, for Francis delight. 
"What the hell are you saying? This is great!" Alfred yells, about to pour another dose of syrup. Arthur, however, is quick to take the bottle. "We said one. And watch your language."
 
Alfred rolls his eyes with another long sigh. Then, he shrugs it off, jumps off his seat and grabs his brother by the arm.
 
"Where do you think you are going?" Arthur calls back, sternly. 
"To play!"
"Not before you put your plates and your cups in the sink. You know the rules. Go on."
 
The boys nod, obediently. They are enthusiastic but polite kids and they know better than contradict their father. In minutes they have clean their portion of the table, asked and given permission to go playing in the garden.
 
As soon as they run away, Francis stretches over the table. "Finally alone," he purrs, to Arthur's irritation.
"The kids are just there," he points, exaggerated exasperation in his voice. He still can't hide a half-smile when Francis leans forward to give him a kiss. And though he huffs, he doesn't fight too much when his husband drags him to sit in his lap, in a beautiful aftenoon day.