[A/N: Decided to post this one-shot here since I realized Hamburger Sutorito II makes much more since if you've read this.]
There was a vase sitting on the small, dark wood table in Canada's dining room. In it sat a single daisy. Matthew stared at it gloomily from his seat the end of the table. He had never been as into secret flower codes as much as some nations, but even he remembered what daisies symbolized: innocence and purity, not to mention loyalty and faithful love. He really had not been trying to send some kind of coded message in placing a daisy on the table, really. They were the only flowers growing outside in the yard, after all. Francis knew how he felt on the subject anyway, and pouting, sulking, or sending a million messages of his displeasure would change nothing. He had made the bargain fair and square.
Sex with Francis any time he ate one of his oh-so-delicious meals.
And while he may not have liked putting up with Francis's amorous attentions, the price he paid for these delectable dinners seemed to make them taste all the better. He couldn't escape their dark temptation, and if he did refuse them he knew he would only grow to regret it as the hours passed, till he ultimately wound up on his knees begging for Francis to cook him anything, anything! Even just some of his mini tartelettes or a little with crackers—he didn't need a feast or anything. No, it was better not to naively balk and have to repent later. This was he got all the courses.
For he was just as much a slave to his stomach's appetite as his brother Alfred. The only difference was that his was a discriminating palate—it would not be satisfied by shoving any cheap, greasy food into it. No, only the finest dishes would set his heart and mind at ease. Despite the consternation of his fellow nations (why would anyone willingly enter into a marriage with Francis?) none had guessed his deepest secret.
When Arthur had learned of their relationship, he had raged about Francis "corrupting" him during his time spent as a French colony. Matthew completely agreed with him, but not in the way he thought. Trips to Europe as a child to help his Papa "observe" Austria' and other countries had did nothing in the way of making him a lech (although being brained by Hungary's skillet might have set him on the opposite path... unfortunately, one wavy blonde head looked much alike when peeping out from the bushes)
Oh how much better this deal would work out if he were married to England... He would never feel the overwhelming, inescapable desire to eat one of Arthur's meals, and he would thus be spared the ignominy of sex forever. As it was, he struggled to start dinner every night before Francis could. Breakfast was no worry—even France's picky palate was content with Canada's pancakes and maple syrup, so he never had to worry about waking up to an irresistible French breakfast that would wind up with him stripping afterwards. Lunch was taken at the office, but too often he was caught in traffic and would arrive home to a full table, lit softly and evilly by candlelight. And when Francis went away on trips to other countries... in many ways it was a relief. France was gone chasing someone's else's sweet tail and Canada's mind could for once be free of images of Francis's tartiflette and lemon soufflé. But then he would inevitably come back. And Canada had tried, tried, tried every time to resist the dinners revealed to him when he entered his house's kitchen. But he had failed. Each and every time. And wasn't it good to fail? Had failure ever tasted so sweet, then savory?
"Mon petit chou, what are you waiting for? Is my humble cooking displeasing to you?" France asked, breaking him out of his reverie.
Looking at the smug, fake concerned face in front of him (Francis knew perfectly well what his cooking did to Canada), he couldn't help but feel slightly resentful. Slightly. He was Canadian after all.
It just wasn't fair. He couldn't help it. Canada pouted prettily and turned his head away. But when France put a fork full of icing-heavy, rich chocolate cake in front of his lips, he parted them and ate the cake off the fork. And then licked it. Clean.