My first attempt at a multi-chaptered Hetalia story! This one's a little strange… I just have this idea of everyone trying to kiss young Canada, and him being completely freaked out. It's not in any way historically accurate, and I apologise for any spelling/grammar mistakes. There's some yaoi and boy/boy, so if you don't like that, don't read. Reviews are always appreciated!
Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia. Or mistletoe.
Matthew was tying his shoelaces when the doorbell rang. He paused, the knot half-fastened, and listened for the unmistakable sound of Arthur trudging down the stairs. It never came.
Instead, Matthew tied a hasty bow and pushed himself off the floor. He ran a hand through his wavy hair as he trotted down the stairs, feeling slightly guilty. Arthur had always told him not to greet anyone unless he was completely presentable, and the unbrushed strands made him look as though he'd just got out of bed. Which wasn't that far from the truth, actually.
A more rebellious part of Matthew's mind told him, however, that if Arthur didn't want him to answer the door he should have done it himself.
Matthew hesitated before the door and reached up on his tiptoes to put his eye to the peephole. The image of a somewhat distorted, but very familiar, Francis swam into view.
Matthew twisted the doorknob, a faint smile lighting his delicate features. It had been over a week since he'd seen his Papa, and truth be told he'd missed him. Of course, he couldn't mention anything to Arthur, as the older man would fly into a rage at the very mention of Francis' name.
Matthew, temporarily forgetting the two men's obvious dislike for each other (it had been a long time since he'd seen his Papa, after all) pulled the door open.
Francis was smiling calmly, but this widened into a grin when he saw his son standing nervously in the doorway. "Matheiu!" he cried, taking in the boy's height (he seemed to be taller every time Francis saw him) and his slight build. His son's eyes were bright behind the wire-rimmed glasses, but his hair was obviously not combed.
Francis clicked his tongue in disapproval and Matthew, as if reading his Papa's mind, sheepishly ran his fingers through the wavy strands. "That is not how you do it," Francis mildly scolded. He stepped closer to his son and reached out a pale hand, so similar to the boy's own.
Matthew tensed, as his Papa moved towards him (must be Arthur's influence) and his eyes closed briefly. But after a few seconds, when the only new sensation was a strange feeling around his head, he risked opening them again.
Francis was combing his fingers through the boy's silky hair, an indulgent smile on his face as he groomed his son. Matthew smiled nervously back. Several minutes later, Francis pulled away almost reluctantly. "There," he said, "Much better."
Matthew opened the door wider to let his Papa into the house. His head still seemed to be tingling from the strange sensations the fingers running through his hair had caused. Something was tugging on his memory: he had a curious feeling that it had happened before. Probably when he was living with his Papa, he guessed.
He turned back to ask the older man about it, but Francis' eyes were focused on something above his head. Matthew looked up, and saw it: the glossy green and waxy white of the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling. He had helped Arthur decorate the house for Christmas a few days ago, and despite grumbling, the British man had insisted on putting the cluster of leaves there. He said it was traditional.
"Le gui," Francis murmured. Matthew frantically searched through his knowledge of French, trying to place the rarely heard words. Living with Arthur for so long had made him neglect his first language. "Mistletoe?" he guessed. Francis smiled gently and nodded at his son.
"Yes," he whispered, "Mistletoe." In Francis' soft, sensuous voice, the word sent strange sensations down Matthew's spine. He was still trying to work out what they were when the older man reached down and kissed him on the lips.
Matthew's mind exploded. Francis's mouth was hard and demanding against his own, tasting of wine and dark chocolate and- with one huge shove; he pushed his Papa away from him.
There was a long, hollow silence. Francis leant, panting slightly, against the wall, his eyes half-closed and his lips red from the kiss. Matthew hid his face in his hands. Francis was his Papa! The one who had raised him, taught him to speak, held him when he had nightmares… for them to kiss was completely, utterly, wrong. The boy felt dirty, embarrassed and ashamed. He couldn't bear to even look at Francis.
"What's going on?" a distinctive voice suddenly demanded. Arthur, Matthew thought, and before he knew what he was doing he found himself hugging the British man, clutching his jumper with desperate fingers and burying his face in the soft wool. "Nothing," he heard Francis mutter.
Matthew risked a glance at Arthur's face. The older man's expression was torn between confusion and a steadily rising anger. Thankfully, the latter was directed at Francis, not at his son. "You should go now," Arthur ordered in a low, dangerous voice. Matthew saw Francis hesitate, his clear blue eyes lingering on his son's head. "Go," Arthur growled, and the French man stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.
Matthew let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and relaxed against Arthur's body. The British man smelt of tea and books, a familiar, comforting scent that calmed the boy's frantic mind.
After a few moments Arthur patted Matthew awkwardly on the back. "I- Are you ok?" he asked, sounding a little lost.
The younger boy breathed in the warm smell and leant his head against the other's chest. "I'm fine."