Pairings: eventual EngCan

Warnings: language, fluff, slash

Notes: Originally posted on Tumblr

I.

Matthew's still rummaging around in his fridge and all Arthur needs is for him to retrieve the sausage he bought just yesterday, so he turns and says, "There isn't anything in there, boy. What are you looking for?"

Matthew stands up, the corners of his mouth tugging down. And he looks so distressed that Arthur almost puts down the spatula and turns to look at him fully.

"There isn't anything in there." Matthew says quietly, brow furrowed. Bemused and just looking at Arthur. It makes him a little uncomfortable, makes the back of his neck prickle even. "There's just milk, eggs, and leftover curry."

"There's sausage, too." Arthur replies, turning back to the stove to scramble the eggs. He pointedly does not look at Matthew. He's got more than a few centuries on the boy. He doesn't need a lecture from the child who once thought leftover chips and beer were good enough for breakfast. "I asked for that, not an inventory of what I have to eat."

"You don't have anything to eat." Matthew's voice pulls and Arthur sighs.

He repeats, "The sausage, Matthew. And put the kettle on."

II.

He's eating matter paneer with leftover Chinese takeout rice and watching football when someone knocks on his door. He takes the carton with him to the door, figuring the housekeeper must have decided to come early. He doesn't expect to see Matthew there with a tote bag of groceries and several bulging plastic bags. A bundle of leeks peek out of one.

Matthew's still wearing the button-up from that morning, when Arthur drove him to the airport after breakfast. He looks sheepish and Arthur sighs.

Technically, he knows Matthew's seen him in worse than a t-shirt with a hole in the collar (and under the armpit, but don't tell) and at least it's Vivienne Westwood and not a bloody uniform, but he also knows Matthew avoided him carefully during the 1970s.

"You should be on a plane." Arthur says, pointing at Matthew with the carton.

Matthew shrugs, smiles faintly.

Arthur lets him in.

III.

Matthew's fingers are bright white and burning red where the plastic dug into his skin and Arthur moves to reach for them, but then pulls back, fussing with the plastic spoon in his food.

Matthew, however, reaches and snatches the carton away, bringing it up to his nose and making a displeased face.

"How old is this?"

"I picked it up on the way back from the airport. Where you should be. Matthew—"

"You can't live like this, Arthur." Matthew says softly. He looks unhappy and it hits Arthur right in his chest. He was never the one to make his colonies worry. He never wanted them that much aware of him.

"Watch yourself, boy." He warns.

"Can I at least cook you a proper meal?" Matthew asks, looks so hopeful that Arthur doesn't have the heart to tell him it all tastes the same. He doesn't want Matthew wasting his time, least of all on him. But Matthew persists, even when he shakes his head.

At length he sighs.

"Do what you want."

That ends up being roasted salmon and Brussels sprouts.

Francis teases him about having burnt his taste buds to death, having sacrificed good food for function and necessity. Arthur's never been a picky eater, even as a child. He just made himself eat, everything, anything he could. He didn't have the time to be fussy.

But seeing Matthew's smile, the way he goes on and on about a "maple glaze," and how all Arthur needs is just olive oil, salt, and pepper—and don't worry, he bought those, just in case—and Arthur can't even find it in him to be insulted that Matthew thinks he doesn't even have salt on hand.

He has salt. And rows of other spices.

He reminds Matthew that he took care of him and that Matthew was never want for any dish, but Matthew just laughs.

"You had chefs, Arthur." Matthew says warmly, nudging the still hot pan toward Arthur. Arthur is certain he's never seen that baking tray before. He says nothing.

He takes another helping and tells Matthew everything is delicious.

It's not a lie, not really. He knows Matthew is a good cook.

IV.

It becomes habit far too quickly, but Arthur can't even lie and say he minds. Because he doesn't. He doesn't need a babysitter, doesn't know how Matthew got it into his head. Honestly, Arthur's fridge has never been perfectly stocked. But he has all the staples and he manages to get everyone fed when they do visit.

Besides, everyone is happier when he's away from the stove. He's happier away from the stove.

He says as much to Matthew, his head almost falling off his fist while he tries to follow Matthew's movements around his kitchen.

"Drink up." Matthew murmurs, flitting away from the stove to push another glass of water at Arthur. He's barely flushed, probably didn't even drink. "I didn't. I have an early flight tomorrow and I can't stomach flying while drunk."

"So change your flight." Arthur replies quietly. He drags his fingertip around the rim of his glass, eyes a little dark, feeling warm. "You're always welcome here."

Matthew gives him a side-glance, but says nothing. He just quietly sprinkles cheese on the pizza dough.

It remains that Arthur doesn't mind because he likes having Matthew nearby. Likes having him looking at him, likes him in his space so often that Arthur catches flickers of his cologne when he's brewing tea. He likes Matthew's pleased curling smiles, the movement of his hands when he's stirring, scraping, sautéing.

He likes Matthew there, like he belongs.

Arthur wakes up on the coach, and Matthew is nowhere to be found. Stumbling into the kitchen, he finds a tray of pizza on the stove. There's a slice missing, and he lets out a tenseness in his chest Arthur didn't know he was holding in. There's a knife resting on the side and even though the pizza is cold, he cuts a slice and eats it like that.

Turning he sees a pitcher of water and painkillers on the counter.

V.

He brings leftover rice pilaf and chicken, and one of his ministers, during a lunch meeting, raises an eyebrow when he opens the heated container and a fragrant plume of steam rises up. It makes all the conversation stop, forces people to look at him.

Arthur just stares, waiting, brow quirked.

But no one says anything, though they do look back at the container and then him, like he's hiding something. But he doesn't explain.

His lack of cooking ability isn't secret. And when he does bring his own lunch, it tends to be breakfast foods. He's made those often enough for fussy colonies with tiny larders that the foods are near perfect.

Even Francis can't turn his smarmy nose up at his black pudding.

He finishes his lunch and after the meeting texts Matthew his thanks.

Matthew sends back a smiling face and Arthur can't hold back a smile.

VI.

Dinner escalates to dessert and when Arthur comes into the kitchen and sees Matthew pulling a trifle out of the fridge, he exclaims, "When did you have the time to make that?"

Matthew blushes.

Arthur resolves to start helping in the kitchen.

VII.

Matthew gracefully spoons the burned vegetables in his share of the stir-fry before Arthur can take them. Arthur opens his mouth to tell him it's no bother, but Matthew starts eating.

Arthur lets him have the rest of the juice.

VIII.

Matthew usually comes after meetings in London, so he isn't really around often, but Arthur does come to expect him when he's in town.

Honestly, sometimes Arthur comes back and his fridge is stocked. It takes him a while to realize that Matthew's been in contact with his housekeeper and is paying her to also do his grocery shopping.

Arthur actually gets angry at that, leaves Matthew a furious message.

All Matthew sends is a frowning emoticon and, well, that's the end of that. Arthur's too stunned at the response and starts to wonder if maybe Matthew was so hurt that only such an emoticon could describe his feelings. He's halfway through an apology message before Matthew sends him a link to a recipe that requires some of the ingredients now in his refrigerator. Arthur ends up trying the recipe on his own. He manages not to burn anything. It helps that he doesn't watch the match while cooking.

Anyway, it only makes sense that Arthur expects Matthew. So when the G20 is in London, he is fully expecting Matthew to be on the other side of the door. Instead, it's Alfred.

"Don't look so happy, old man." Alfred teases, pushing past him and shrugging off his coat. "Matt came to blows with Ivan. Something about the Arctic. They'll probably be at it all night."

"What do you mean?" Arthur follows him, absently kicks the other's feet off his coffee table when Alfred throws them up, falling back on the couch and reaching for the remote, at once. "Is he alright?"

"He's probably getting drunk in Ivan's room, complaining about hockey now." Alfred says easily, remote in his hands. "When does Sherlock come on again?"

"Not today." Arthur says, sharper now. Alfred glances at him and then doesn't look away. Arthur's jaw goes tight.

And Alfred's face stays impassive, but then it gives way to polite confusion. "Ivan and Matthew get into it, you know. They'll drink it out, pass out. It's…sort of a thing with them." Alfred pauses, mouth going uncertain like he's turning over something in his head. Eventually he says, "It's just a thing."

Arthur's stomach goes into knots, over whatever this "thing" could be. And, for a split moment, there's a shade of anger, making him go tense, form fists at his side. Logically he knows that Matthew is his own nation, that Ivan actually respects Matthew. He knows that nothing untoward is happening, and even if it was, Matthew would be firmly in control.

Alfred makes grilled cheese and digs out two cans of tomato soup. Dimly, Arthur remembers them appearing in the pantry.

But he's mostly imagining Ivan's broad hands on Matthew's hips.

IX.

Matthew must have come at night, because he's dozing on the couch when Arthur wakes up.

Arthur looks at him for a long moment, smile curling up one cheek when he brushes a tangle of hair out of Matthew's face.

When Matthew tumbles into the kitchen following the smell of toast, Arthur brushes his knuckles along his hip and tells him to take out the butter and jam. Matthew's answering smile takes away Arthur's breath.

X.

"The duck's overcooked." Francis frowns. "Your steak looks to be as well. I thought you said this was a popular restaurant?"

Arthur just shrugs. "It is. That doesn't mean it's a good one." He smirks when Francis glowers at him. He adds, "You're the one who complains when I suggest shawarma."

"I'd rather have shawarma."

So they leave and get shawarma. And Francis looks absurd in his well-tailored navy suit, perched on the curb with a large shawarma wrap, loaded with meat and onion, in his thin hands.

"Best idea you've had in a while, frog." Arthur says, without bite, at good-natured as he can get now that they're on the street in the cool air instead of a dim-lit restaurant trying to be civil when all Arthur wants to do is retch at Francis's new cologne. Here, on a curb with greasy street-food in their hands, he can do exactly that.

"Still a tasteless brat." Francis sniffs, flicking a wrinkled piece of lettuce at him. Arthur tosses a used napkin in retaliation.

They fall into an easy silence. At least until Francis says, crumpling up the paper from his wrap, "Matthew asked me how to cook mussels. Apparently every time he tries he never gets them quite right. Strange because the last time he made them, he made a very lovely chowder. But now he wants to try them with white wine. I asked who he wanted to impress." And Francis looks at him, smile playing on his lips, and Arthur pointedly concentrates on finishing his shawarma.

"Don't know what you mean." He says cagily, mouth full.

"And then he asked if you liked mussels. I said you might prefer sausage." Francis, at least, waits for Arthur to stop coughing after a large bite of beef got caught in his throat. But the bastard keeps smiling, waiting. "Why is he wasting his, admittedly, very good cooking skills on you?"

Arthur looks straight ahead, into traffic. He says, "He seems to have gotten it into his head that I can't take care of myself, that I must be malnourished."

"How much carry-out did you have in your fridge?"

"Not a lot." He hesitates, remembering Matthew picking out each box and grimacing. "But you know, once that boy gets something into his head, he can't be stopped."

"True." Francis murmurs. "That is true." He pauses, "He is a good cook. It is a pity you might never know."

Arthur thinks of how Matthew looks while cooking, intent and pink from the heat. He knows Arthur's kitchen better than him, at times, and managed to unearth utensils Arthur didn't know he had. And he thinks of how pleased Matthew looks when he eats, how he waits for Arthur to take the first bite, lets Arthur sneak tastes when he isn't even done.

"It is a pity." Arthur agrees quietly. "He looks so happy, Francis. I can't…I couldn't…Let him have his fun."

"I gave him the recipe." Francis shrugs. "You should provide the wine."

XI.

Matthew doesn't usually do food and wine pairings, probably because Arthur doesn't actually have wine on hand and he can't imagine Matthew being that particular. So when Arthur pulls out a bottle of white wine (that Francis ended up bringing him from his own storage), Matthew just pulls out two wine glasses.

He forgets that Matthew is actually terrible at holding his alcohol.

"Steady there." Arthur murmurs, close enough to hear Matthew's laughter in his ear, as he steadies Matthew's bowl. He looks up, sees Matthew trying to bite back a smile.

"I have a flight tomorrow." He says, contritely, but the affect is ruined when he laughs again. Shaking his head, he says, "This is awful."

Arthur swallows hard, his hand still covering Matthew's on the white bowl. "You can stay, you know."

Matthew just looks at him through his lashes, mouth unfurling into a small smile.

He stays.

XII.

Matthew can't get another flight for two days because he came on a commercial airline. Arthur brings him to work, apologizing in the car for Matthew having to take part in impromptu meetings.

"You're too old to be playing with the Queen's corgis." Arthur says, almost teasing when Matthew sighs.

That night Arthur pulls him away from the stove and suggests dinner, off-handedly mentioning that he can't always have Matthew cooking for him.

"Take a break, my boy. I survived before you and I'll survive after." He says cheerfully, but Matthew doesn't return his smile immediately.

When he does, it doesn't reach his eyes.

XIII.

"Is everything alright?" Arthur asks when Matthew prods at his fish with a frown.

Matthew's lips are pressed into a fine line, but he shakes his head. "It's just a little tough."

"But it tastes fine." Arthur points out, spearing his own piece. He had ordered the same thing. He had been so busy admiring the candlelight lighting up the lines of Matthew's face that he had barely glanced at the menu.

Matthew just looks at him and says, in a half-laugh, "It's burnt, Arthur."

Arthur just pushes his own plate toward Matthew and Matthew demurs but Arthur insists. Matthew takes a small bite and frowns.

At length, he mumbles, "Maybe it's just me."

Arthur stops chewing but Matthew just shakes his head. He doesn't speak, just finishes his water, and turns down dessert.

Arthur feels uneasy and just has the rest of his meal boxed to go.

XIV.

"Your fish wasn't even seasoned." Matthew says quietly after they enter Arthur's apartment. "The bread was stale."

Arthur's brow furrows and he pulls off his coat. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I thought it was my 'fussy French taste.'" Matthew replies, sounding far-off. Arthur's certain he's never said anything like that to Matthew, but he doesn't speak. Matthew continues, "I know that's a highly rated restaurant, Arthur, but how could you eat that fish? I couldn't even swallow the bite I took."

Arthur stills.

Matthew waits.

Arthur turns slowly and Matthew just looks at him.

"I can't," He swallows roughly, "really taste much, Matthew."

"But you liked my cooking." Matthew looks confused, crosses his arms. "You said everything was perfectly salted and seasoned and…"

Arthur just shrugs, fiddling with the keys in his hand. He shouldn't feel guilty. Shouldn't Matthew know? Who else could stomach Alfred's noxious culinary concoctions? Why does Francis take it so personally when he shrugs off his desserts? He doesn't know what to say to make the hurt expression on Matthew's face disappear, so he goes with honesty. "I thought you knew, but had forgotten. I didn't want to make you feel bad."

"So I've been cooking and worrying over every single step and none of it mattered?" Matthew asks softly. "It all just tastes the same?"

Arthur opens his mouth, to lie now, but he deflates and says, "More or less." He adds, when Matthew seems to withdraw on himself. "It isn't such a bad thing, love. Everything you make looks lovely. It only follows that…"

"But I wanted it to taste good." Matthew interrupts, color flooding into his cheeks. "I wanted…" He shakes his head, roughly, then, and mutters, "Nothing. Never mind, never mind."

And he pushes past Arthur, ignoring the other's attempts to pull him back.

XV.

A week later, he tries to replicate the salmon and Brussels sprouts Matthew made the first time, and it actually comes out near perfect. But, popping one of the sprouts in his mouth, Arthur almost spits it back out.

It isn't the same.

XVI.

Matthew doesn't respond to his messages if he will come to London for a day after the meeting in Paris. Arthur tries to find him after the meeting, but he disappears with Francis, ostensibly to stuff himself with croissants and chocolate as Alfred suggests.

Of course, Arthur just goes to Francis's apartment and presses on the buzzer until Francis's beleaguered voice filters out.

"You pay for my museum ticket and you can have my apartment for the entire day."

"Don't you get a discount?"

"It is hard times for us all, my friend."

Arthur grumbles but pulls out a wrinkled 20 euro note and shoves it as Francis as he glides out of the apartment door, holding it open long enough for Arthur to slip in.

Matthew is slowly working his way through a box of candied chocolate oranges. He doesn't look at Arthur. And Arthur fancies himself to be a patient man, and has been more than tolerant of Matthew ignoring his texts and calls.

"You're being a child." He says quietly. Matthew doesn't look at him, and Arthur resists the urge to make him. "I didn't tell you because when you get something into your head, it's easier to let you get bored on your own. And you looked so happy cooking, I didn't want to stop you. And, after a point, I wanted you there. I liked you being there." And Matthew gives him such a quick glance, Arthur wonders if he imagined it. But he keeps going. "I hate that I can't taste what you make. Nothing I cook compares, even everything looks the same. It isn't the same."

Matthew says nothing and Arthur breathes out heavily, pressure building between his eyes. All he wants is for Matthew to look at him.

"I miss you." He finishes, sitting next to Matthew. His throat feels tight, like his heart jumped up there.

After a few minutes, Matthew lets out a tremulous breath and sits back. He looks at Arthur and says, "I liked being there with you. I like you." His voice kicks, softly, when he says, again, "I like you."

Arthur's leaning in before he quite realizes it and he can see the freckles flung across Matthew's nose, and Matthew's wide eyes, how they flicker down to his mouth and back up. Arthur keeps leaning in.

They kiss.