From Nothing (Hetalia fanfic, FrUK)

Chapter 4

After that meeting, the rest of which was filled with awkward glances (I could only imagine what they thought of Francis and I being in the privacy of the restroom for so long), Francis went home with me. I don't know what he hoped to accomplish.

In any case, I was famished, so I went to the kitchen and started getting things out for scones. Francis noticed and took everything out of my hands, which earned him a confused look from me. He grinned sheepishly and said, “Ah, I just thought we could make them together, Angleterre.”

“Why?” I asked, knowing he criticized and hated my cooking.

“Because I want to know how you make them.”

It seemed a really bad excuse, but I let him assist anyway. Watching him cook was pretty much like watching a god make a world; everything he did seemed effortless and it was almost like magic guided his hands and led him to create such perfection.

This time, the scones weren't burned. Honestly, they tasted a million times better than anything I've ever made. And they had blueberries. My favorite. “I like them better when you make them,” I admitted.

“Me too,” he said shamelessly. That brought up a little bit of that burning hot feeling, the unpleasant one. It was almost like he knew, because he asked, “Did that make you angry?”

Anger. It was a sliver of anger after all, wasn't it? But not quite full-fledged anger, or even a diluted form. Just hazed over like a window on a foggy evening. I explained it to him.

“Do you think, if I did things to make you angry all the time, you would eventually get truly angry?” he asked.

“I suppose,” I replied with a small sigh. “But don't start with anger. If that's the only one it works for, I'll just be angry all the time.”

“Yeah, that was bad enough before you lost all emotion,” he mumbled, but I could hear him and my anger was just a little bit stronger this time. Not much, but enough to notice. “So what shall I start with?”

“Something pleasant,” I said, reaching for my tea. “Happiness, maybe.”

He look daunted. “How?! I've never been able to make you happy!”

I sent him a disbelieving glance. “Have you ever tried?”

“Well, no,” he said, to which I responded with a knowing look. “So, what does make you happy?” he asked.

This induced a diluted anger. It felt different, even though it was hazed over like everything else. “Well, I don't know, do I? I can't feel anything, remember?”

“Did the scones make you happy?”

Come to think of it, when he made the scones, there was a warmth. It was much less in-depth than the warmth Francis usually gave me, but it was still there; a dusting on the surface of my soul like flower pollen. “I guess so, yeah.”

He hummed, then stood and walked to the kitchen. I could hear him searching around, so I asked him rather loudly what he was doing.

“Looking for wine,” he said. “If I'm going to be here for a while, I'm going to want wine.”

Anger. Just a twinge, but still there. “You're terrible at not making me angry.”

He made a sound that was usually prelude to an argument, but he cut it short. Under normal circumstances, he'd never pass up the opportunity for a fight. Granted, these weren't normal circumstances, but it still felt like he was babying me. I didn't know how to interpret that; was he doing it for himself like he usually did or was it out of consideration for me?

He walked back looking discouraged and somewhat awkward. “There's no wine,” he mumbled.

“Of course not, I drink tea.” I bit into another scone. “If you want wine, get it yourself.”

“Non, I'll be fine.” He sat down in his chair again, examining his fingernails. “So, Angleterre, you like to read. What's your favorite book?”

“That's hard. All the great classics.”

“That gives me nowhere to start. Choose one.”

“Nowhere to start? How do you mean?” Was he actually going to try reading? Another dusting of warmth.

He confirmed my suspicions. “I'm going to read your favorites, mon ami.”

“Um, well. I like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's short stories on Sherlock Holmes. That should give you a good starting place.” A bit easier to read than Shakespeare. I walked over to a bookshelf in the far corner of the room, where I kept all the volumes, and showed him where they were. “Read them in order of the publication date, that goes left to right.”

I could see he looked somewhat daunted by the number of books, but he covered it up with his French laugh and got the first one off the shelf, then sat back down and opened to the first page, a determined look in his eyes.