France's Daughter // Hetalia

Chapter Eleven- Sugar, Spice, and Everything Nice

Charlotte (Charlie, Lottie)

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Saying goodbye to Alfie and Mattie was the worst. Al even cried a little, and.. It was just so awkward with Matt. He gave me a dreaded side-hug, and that's when I knew anything I could have dreamed of pursuing was a lost cause. Papa had helped me load my bags into this HUGE limo he rented out. I missed living in luxury. I can't even imagine what it'll be like when I leave for college. Of course, I'll still always visit Papa. There's no way I'd just leave and never look back... 

At least, not again.

It only took a few minutes to arrive back home. What I wasn't expecting was my room to be completely untouched. All I had to do was throw some clothes in the closet and put my toothbrush away. What I also wasn't expecting, and what was the biggest shock of all, was that Arthur had moved in while I was gone.

Arthur Kirkland, Papa's biggest rival, his worst enemy. The one he fights with day and night, is living with him. Which is when I asked: 

"Papa, are you and Arthur an item?"

That didn't sit well with him. He stirred for a moment, cracked his neck, his knuckles, looked around the room nervously, then finally denied it with an ingenuine disgust. I shrugged it off for now, but I'll have to remind myself to ask him again another day. It's none of my business, and honestly, I would be a bit creeped out if me and Papa got into detail about our sex lives, but it'd be cool if Arthur would become my other Papa. I'd call him pere.

I wonder if Papa is going to make me go to school again. I had officially dropped out only a few months after leaving, but I'm sure they'd let me back in. I am the daughter of the most well-known, important, rich French ambassador. Ahh, I don't want to be conceited, though. School doesn't matter much to me anyways. I want to be a baker. You don't need that high of an education for that, right?

"Whatcha cookin'?", I ask, sitting down at the counter and watching Papa cook.

He cringes at the American slang I picked up on, the formality he taught me thrown out the window and lost in the grass. The aroma of different spices and scents fills the room, and even Arthur, sitting next to me with his newspaper, seems enticed. Baking is my specialty, I've never really been good at cooking. Papa made sure I knew the basics though. Noodles, vegetables, chicken, beef... Enough to make sure I could survive on my own. 

I never really used the recipes at Alfred's though. 

"Bœuf à la bourguignonne! A classic, oui, but I know it's-"

"My favourite!", I finish, my eyes lighting up happily.

He flashes me a confident grin, then turns back to the stove. "-And I was thinking maybe you could make..."

The dessert! I can't help but gasp, my knee bouncing rapidly against the stool. He's never let me make the dessert before- sure, I'd bake often, but we'd always end up giving it away to someone at the World Meetings or to neighbors or donate it to the bakery... Papa's never tasted my baking before.

I'll make Opera cake!

"...Breakfast in the morning!", he declares happily, and looks back to analyze my reaction.

My heart sinks, but I plaster on a happy smile to keep him satisfied. Arthur looks at me- No, looks through me, and I know he knows what I really want. He clears his throat, and sets a hand on my shoulder.

"Lottie, love, can you go fetch me some band-aids? I have a paper cut", He says quietly, showing me his hand and pulling it back quickly- fast enough so that if he really did have a cut, I wouldn't be able to tell.

I give him a knowing glare, not of contempt but appreciation, and scurry off upstairs. Three minutes should be enough time for him to say what he needs to say. 

I'll be forever grateful if he pulls this off for me.

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France (Francis)

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"Let the girl make dessert"

"Non"

"Why not!?"

"Non"

"If you say that one more time I swear I'll-"

"You'll what?", I turn to him, walking over to the counter slowly, a smirk spreading across my lips. "You'll yell at me? Hit me? Do it."

He stares at me, and I swear I see the faintest trace of a blush across his cheeks. He's embarrassed, and every argument he had planned has crumbled. He feels inferior, I know this, and I should be proud, but for some reason I'm taking pity on him.

"You're just being an arse towards her! You finally get her back and the first thing you do is restrict her again! Why won't you let her bake for you? You remember how much she loved it! She has a knack for it, and you know it!", he yells, standing up and slamming his hands on the marble counter.

I take a moment to think about it. The only reason I haven't let her is because I don't trust her. I should, I really should- but baking is so delicate and fine. She's always been a little ditsy and clumsy- and if she gets the ingredients wrong, if it doesn't turn out right the one time she makes it for me, it'll crush her. Baking is a science, a gamble, and an art. 

"I just don't know if she's sophisticated enough to pull it off", I finally answer, but the words seem more harsh than I had intended- Even England looks taken aback.

"Sophisticated enough? Do you not remember the whole reason she took off in the first place!?"

"She took off because of that boyfriend of hers!"

"Are you that dense!?"

"Shut up!"

"You shut up! Don't tell me to shut up!"

"Stupid black sheep!"

"Ugly frog!"

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Charlotte (Charlie, Lottie)

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They're bickering again. I shouldn't be eavesdropping, but I can't help it. I fiddle with the bandage in my hands, trying to decipher eligible words between overlapping screaming. Papa was harsh... He still doesn't understand. Perhaps he'll never understand me. It's disappointing, sure, but there's no reason to lose my temper. I know he's trying his best.

I close my eyes, lean against the wall, and catch a whiff of Papa's cooking. I wonder if I'll ever be as good as him in the kitchen. He's so amazing at everything... cooking, fashion, socializing, flirting... He's untouchable. Is he disappointed that I can never outdo him? 

I take in a deep breath, but when I exhale, I notice something. No- more like smell something. Burning. I peek around the corner, and notice the pot on the stove is boiling over, and smoke is rising from a few of the pans. My eyes flicker over to Papa, who's so deep in argument with Arthur that he doesn't notice the catastrophe behind him.

I shake my head, more disappointed in Papa's negligence than his quarrel. Arthur's the only one that could get him to look away from what he's cooking. I guess that says something about their relationship. Slyly, I sneak back into the kitchen, and lower the temperature on the stove, trying my best to save what's salvageable. Luckily, it hadn't been burning long enough to ruin the dish. 

"Ahem", I clear my throat, and Papa swings around, evidently embarrassed over his temper. "You almost ruined dinner... but I saved it~", I tease.

"Merci", Papa mumbles under his breath, turning his attention back to the food.

I take my seat next to Arthur again, and he pats my shoulder gently. I look at him, and a streak of annoyance enters my system at the sight of his sympathetic face. It's as if he's pitying me. 

I hate it.