America X Reader X Canada: A Gentleman's Duel (1)

   Fork clinking against his plate, Matthew scoops up another morsel. Taking a bite, he savors the caramelized sugar, the sweet liquor of maple syrup. The syrup compliments his pancakes so well.
   His father, Francis, was enjoying his Nutella and banana-stuffed crepes. Matt’s heart swells in pride; his country, Canada, had mixed that Nutella, and his Papa was enjoying every bite.
   Catching his son staring at him, Francis looks up. He smirks and Matthew instantly busies himself with his pancakes because he knows what his father is about to say.
   “So, Matthew~ Did any flowers yesterday appeal to you?” asks Francis, leaning across the table to avoid missing the blonde’s soft response.
   A faint dusting of rose colors Matt’s cheeks as he avoids his father’s gaze.
   “I’m sorry, Papa, but n-non,” he answers.
   Disappointed, Francis shakes his head and leans back in his chair.
   “You’re twenty-one years old, mon fils, and not a single mademoiselle has caught your eye?” questions Francis in disbelief, resting his cheek in his hand.
   Hiding his face in his wavy bangs, Matthew shakes his head ‘non’.
   Sighing, Francis rubs his chin stubble thoughtfully. Poor Matthew, he’s so shy. A woman looks for a confident, very-male, gentleman to give her love to. Maybe it’s time for Papa to help his baby boy out~
   “Oui, Matt---” began Francis.
   Abruptly, Matthew stands up with his empty plate, his curl bouncing with the movement.
   “F-Forgive me, Papa, but I...uh...must tend to the rose bushes!” blurts out Matthew, leaving his dishes in the sink and fleeing the room.
   Francis blinked. What just happened…?



   Instead of heading towards the garden, Matthew leaves through the front door. Adorning his favorite red hoodie, he walks with heavy feet. Occasionally, his sneaker catches on the path and he almost trips.
   I wish Papa wouldn’t look so sad; I’m not as suave with the ladies as Papa is. He must think he’s failed with me as his son. thinks Matthew miserably.
   Taking a stroll through the countryside, he passes his twin’s farmhouse.
   Alfred and Matthew were biological twins placed into foster care and eventually separated, when they were adopted by two different men. Fortunately, Arthur---(Alfred’s adoptive father)---and Francis met up and decided to live as neighbors, so the twins would never be far from each other.
   A chicken pausing in his path causes Matt to stop too. He and the chicken stare at each other before the hen clucks and continues on her way. Matthew stares as a string of chicks appear out of the tall, prairie grass to follow her.
   He could have sworn one of them was wearing a German hat….
   Glancing over the fence, Matthew catches sight of his twin running around frantically herding the chickens back into the coup. The Canadian chuckles.
   “Hey! Yo, get back here!” yells Alfred as he dived for one of the gray hens.
   She shrieks and flies out of his path, so he ends up in the dirt instead. Lifting his face, he spits out the dusty earth. Then he’s chasing another hen that had wandered too close out of curiosity. A fat, brown hen mistakes his cowlick as a worm and glides up to his head to peck at it.
   Plopping down, Alfred whimpers and tries to shoo the chicken away.
   Rolling his eyes, Matthew hops the fence and approaches his brother. Carefully, he pulls the chicken into his arms and safely out of reach of Alfred’s cowlick.
   “That one’s a demon, I swear Mattie,” declares Alfred, giving the hen a distrustful glare.
   The chicken only stares back with beady, black eyes and tilts its head.
   “I think she likes you, Alfie~” laughs Matthew.
   Alfred pouts in response, amusing his brother further. “Great, I’ll tell Arthur that and maybe he’ll let up.”
   At this, Matthew becomes sober. “Arthur pressuring you too?”
   Nodding, Alfred folds his arms across his broad chest.
   “He goes on and ON about me being ‘twenty-one’, blah, blah, blah, ‘need to act my age’, blah, blah, blah, ‘girls want a mature guy’, blah, blah, blah….” rants Alfred, irked.
   Scratching his neck, Matthew smiles sheepishly.
   “Well, you do tend to get overly-excited like a child in a candy store…” he points out.
   “Mattie, you’re supposed to be on MY side!” whines Alfred, pouting again.
   “I am and so is this chicken.”
   “The chicken is plotting to peck my hair out.”
   “For shame, Alfie, for shame. She only wants to kiss you. She does that by pecking you. Didn’t you know that’s how chickens kiss?”
   “Woah, really? How did you get so knowledgeable about chickens, Matt?!” gasps Alfred, bouncing up, all irritation gone.
   Matthew stares at the word Gullible stamped on his brother’s forehead. He DOES know I’m joking...right?

   Spending the day with his brother as usual, Matthew avoids going home for as long as possible. He knows Papa will have another place for Matt to visit to “meet his lover for life.” Being the reserved man he is, Matthew hates going to crowded places where basically a dozen Alfred clones are screaming at the TV over football or Irishmen are drinking themselves into the rainbow.
   Only in America…
   After corralling the chickens back into their home, Matthew realizes it’s time: he can’t stall any longer; the sun is setting.
   Waving goodbye only to get a bear-hug in return, Matthew left Alfred to venture home.
   As he predicted, Francis was eagerly awaited his arrival and quickly writes out the directions to a homely, French cafe in downtown. Secretly, Francis hopes all the French waitresses and European women who often flock there would stir something in his precious boy’s heart.
   Swallowing his nerves, Matthew manages a weak smile and takes the note. He feels Papa patting him on the back as he walks out the door in a nicer, flannel shirt.
   “Eat something tasty, look around, and report back to me about the flavors of women you find there~” urges Francis with a wide grin.
   Nodding, Matthew half-stumbles out the door. At least his father is giving him money to eat at all these places, although he suspects that Francis wanted him to spend it on drinks for women or for two to dine.
   Matthew really was clueless in terms of wooing the opposite sex. Heck, he couldn’t even attract the same sex, for his only friend was Ivan, a tall Russian wall---er, man. Most guys simply out-spoke him, drowned his voice out. Women didn’t even look at him like he was invisible.
   Maybe next time he should ask Ivan to be his wingman. He would feel less awkward with his best friend around. Then again, Ivan is equally horrible with the ladies. He frightens them off, but at least they notice him.
   Lost in his thoughts, Matthew almost misses her. She brushes against his shoulder causing him to turn his head. Her floppy sunhat hides her eyes, but her (h/c) wisps of hair curl in the breeze behind her. Long, sleek legs extend out from under the hem of her sundress. Speaking of which, her white sundress is spotted with dusted-pink roses.
   The moment lasts only a second, but the image of this young woman imprints in Matt’s mind. Somehow he knows he’ll never forget this encounter, he’ll never forget her. Even if it appears as if she’ll never remember him.
   As she walks away, Matthew feels his heart flutter.



   Apparently, Arthur was not as amused by Alfred declaring a chicken his girlfriend as the American was.
   “Alfred...no.” Arthur massages a headache in his temple.
   “Hey, you said to bring home a lady, so here she is~ You never said what species she had to be,” points out Alfred, grinning smugly.
   Facepalming, Arthur groans.
   “This is exactly why I want to find you a girlfriend. Settling down might bring you new meaning on ‘maturity’ and ‘responsibility’,” huffs Arthur.
   Lowering the chicken away from the Englishman’s face, Alfred frowns.
   “But it’s funny,” he protests, pursing his lips, “Don’t be lame, Arty, laugh a little.”
   “No.”
   “Yes.”
   “No, and call me Father.”
   “Okay...Papa.”
   “No, Father! I’m NOT going to be called the same as that bloody frog---”
   “So, I’ll call you Arty then.”
   “Yes, that’s bet---what? No!”
   Grinning like a naughty cat, Alfred scurries out of the room before Arthur can lecture him further. As such, a grumbling, fuming Englishman is left standing in the kitchen.
   “Stupid…*grumble*...arrogant, spoiled…*grumble*...bloody fool…*grumble*...a lady would never…*grumble*...maybe if he had MY manners and chivalry---” Arthur suddenly pauses in the middle of his rant. Yes...that’s it. If I mentored Alfred into a proper gentleman...



   It is waaaaay too boring lying on his bed, so Alfred gets up and opens the cottage window. Climbing out, he leaps for the huge willow branch reaching like an offered hand. For a split second, he thinks he’s going to miss it and fall three stories down. His pearlescent-blue eyes are wide until his hand catches the rough bark.
   Even heroes have to save themselves sometimes.
   Swinging from branch to branch with practiced ease, Alfred drops to the ground. Glancing up at the light in Arthur’s room, Alfred gives a salute in silent victory. Hehe. You said I could never be stealthy enough to sneak past you. Ha.
   Scampering off with the setting sun lighting his path, Alfred wills himself into adventure. Kicking up dust on the worn road, the blonde coughs as it irritates his throat. Nonetheless, he keeps running to an unknown goal, an unmapped destination.
   Laughing, exhilarated by the fresh, country air, Alfred almost misses her. Her sunhat pancake flops into his face, carried on the wind. Nearly tripping blindly, he peels the hat off his face and the wind catches it again. It’s ripped from his hand and flies into hers.
   Alfred blinks.
   Shimmering roses dot her ivory sundress as a woman with (h/c) stares at her sunhat in her hands. Her eyes are downcast, so Alfred can’t see them. Raising her hands, she readjusts the floppy sunhat on her head and continues on her way. She walks in the opposite direction from downtown, alone on the quiet road.
   Biting his lip, Alfred feels like a deer caught in highbeams: his heart is beating frantically in his chest. He parts his lips to yell out to her, call her back, but the impossible happens:
   He can’t speak.
   Silent and unable to form words, Alfred can only watch helplessly as she fades from view. Pushing a palm up against his chest, he feels his heart flutter like a trapped bird in his ribcage.
   Telling himself it’s because of all the running he’s done, Alfred ignores the fact that he’s been standing still for five minutes. Long enough for his heart to calm down, yet it hasn’t.
   Like an old car engine, it keeps sputtering.



   Storming into his father’s house, Matthew nearly made Francis jump and shriek a “very manly” scream. Francis wasn’t expecting his son to be home so soon. Had it really gone that bad? What made him worry more is the way Matthew paces the foyer restlessly. Obviously, he is troubled.

   Kicking open his dad’s front door, Alfred gave Arthur a panic attack, for the latter was reading. Tossing his book aside and grabbing Alfred’s baseball bat, Arthur creeps down the stairs, thinking an intruder is at the door.
   Instead, he finds an extremely agitated Alfred in his living room. Constantly sitting down and getting up, Alfred couldn’t sit still.
   Arthur blinked. What the bloody hell is going on here?

   Matthew’s head whips around to find Papa in his favorite chair watching soccer on TV. He’s a nervous wreck as he walks over to Papa’s chair and tugs on his sleeve. His face is flush with color darker than any shade Francis has seen before.
   “P-Papa…”

   Alfred spins around, hearing his father’s footsteps. His face is uncharacteristically nervous.
   Arthur sets the bat down and frowns.
“And what the bloody hell were you doing out there?” he demands.
“Father, I…”
Blinking, Arthur is dumbfounded. Did Alfred really call him ‘Father’?

“Papa...I need you to---” begins Matthew.

“Father...can you---” mumbles Alfred.

“---teach me how to be---” they say together.

“---confident, a charmer like you, Papa.”

“---suave, a charmer like you, Father.”

“Please, make me into a gentleman, so I can impress this girl I...I think I like.”