Out in the garden, armed with a spade and a ferocious scowl to match, England was angrily staring holes into one of the kitchen windows. Normally, that sort of glare was reserved for America’s ill timed pranks or whenever one of his uncouth brothers came to call. In this instance, England’s ire was directed at his co-parent and most hated enemy of all time: France. Normally, this wouldn’t be considered unusual, but the British man found himself pacified whenever he was in the presence of his newest ward, you. But then again, you weren’t at his side, but at France’s beck and call.

Gah! It must be so horrible trying to stomach just how many ingredients and instructions had to go into making such light, airy meals that tasted good, not that England was ever going to admit that, not even upon pain of death and—

“Yo, pops!” England found himself straightening from his slouched posture to find that his former charge was waving around a bag of crisps, the noise making France and their youngest addition to the family look up in curiosity. Knowing that his dreary disposition would make you worry, England focused all of his energy on trying to make America stop acting like a child a hundredth of his age. “You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm! Come here and eat some of your lame off brand chips!”

“If I was to have an aneurysm, I highly doubt adding in oil and starch is going to help. Also—” England stalked towards the North American twins, not at all minding that he was tracking in mud on his clean floors. “—they’re called crisps, you tyke.”

As America guffawed in laughter, Canada offered England a glass of water alongside a wedge of lemon. Offering the more mild-mannered sibling his thanks, England took a sip.

And then promptly choked. 

“Dad?” Canada rose from the wicker chair, a concerned expression on his face. Despite the clear intent to help his surrogate father, Canada was gently rebuffed when England waved him away. 

America, that great big tyke who obviously had no lost love for England, continued to snigger in the background. 

“Apologies, Canada.” England took a slow sip of his water to calm the burning in his throat and to quell the coughs that threatened to explode from his chest. “But your fool of a father has breathed his last!”

And with such an ominous threat, England darted into the kitchen. 

America was the first to speak up. 

“You owe me twenty bucks.”

“Oh, shut up. Dad hasn’t done anything yet.”

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It happened in an instant. 

One second you were listening to a heartracing tale of one of France’s earlier exploits as a youth, when you were grabbed by the waist and hustled out of the kitchen. You were given a fraction of a second to deposit the bowl of batter in your hands into the kitchen counter before you were whisked away into the gardens. France, for the most part, looked put out, but blew you a kiss and a wink when you gave him a pleading look. 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” France rolled his eyes, “or so they say. But I must say, Angleterre, desperation doesn’t look good on you!”

Out in the garden, England brushed off any offensive stains on your person, clicking his tongue when he saw stray bits of flour coating your clothing. 

“Don’t worry, darling, I’ll be the bigger person here because someone has to. What do you say? You help me out in the garden today?”

From behind, England, America piped up, his hand grasping a wad of crumpled bills. “Did he say something about being the bigger person in this situation?”

You nodded, confused… only to groan in exasperation as America turned to Canada, a jeering look on his face. 

“I told ya! Gimme!”

You were later told that Canada lost the last of his American money to America.

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"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.