So this was based off of a headcannon I saw on Tumblr by cryingovergaycountries (that name though). Ah, internet - my bountiful source of inspiration. Enjoy m'lovelies!

Although it was exhausting being a nation, there's one thing that the countries of the world never got tired of – helping those less fortunate than themselves. What each nation did in the name of charity was rarely spoken about, as it was a pretty sensitive matter. However, rumours of selfless acts and heart-warming deeds had begun to circulate within the net of countries.

Lithuania thought about these facts as he sat in his usual place - between Poland and Estonia - at yet another World Meeting. Germany had been leading a talk on foreign exchange rates when an argument had erupted between America and England (as per usual), and right now the whole meeting was in chaos. All it took was one spark to fly between them and the nations of the world would turn to verbally abusing each other; physically abusing each other; trying to sleep with each other or all of the above.

"Everyone's always so, like, negative around here," Feliks shouted to Toris as the commotion raged around them.

"Y-yeah, I kind of wish everybody would try to be focusing on the good side of each other rather than the bad" Toris replied with a nervous laugh. "If there was a way I could be showing them all that they are actually good people, then maybe these meetings wouldn't end up so…" he trailed off as a chair was thrown past them, landing with a crash.

The fellow Baltic nation beside Toris now perked up - "Maybe you could try making a documentary about the charity work everybody does?" Eduard suggested as he cleaned is glasses. "I have lots of cool new camera equipment that I use to take pictures for my blog – you could lend it if you wanted to."

Toris wasn't sure he wanted to go around secretly filming all of these big and powerful countries, especially when they were doing such private activities. "I really don't know anything about filming and editing, and what if I am getting caught by these guys?" his voice was hushed now, conscious that said countries might overhear their conversation.

"Liet, you like, totally won't get caught – I have tons of totally cute outfits you can disguise yourself with, and Eduard is wicked with all that IT stuff," Feliks said excitedly. Eduard was now grinning too. 'Great,' Toris thought, 'There's no way I am getting out of this now'. He sighed and turned to his fellow Baltic.

"Ok."

3 Days Later

"I am still not understanding why I am disguised as a girl," Toris whined as Feliks attached false lashes onto Lithuania's eyelids. He was slumped on a dressing table chair in a small but charming hotel room in Nice, France. Toris had argued why they had to start all the way over at Francis' place to begin their secret film project, but Eduard insisted that Francis wasn't a particularly brutish nation; if Lithuania was caught, they doubted Francis would punish him too harshly (although Toris suspected he would have to pay him back with some kind of sexual favour). Eduard had then gone on to use his IT skills (he claims that he hacked in France's computer systems, but Toris knows that he just has a lot of contacts on Facebook that inform him of any juicy gossip he can put on his blog) to secure the location of an orphanage in the French countryside.

"You're all dressed up like this," Feliks mumbled as he held two hair pins between his teeth (something he had turned into an art form) "So that the cheese-eater thinks you're a totally pretty reporter for Le Bon Citoyen."

"What does that even mean? And won't he be noticing my accent?" Toris whimpered as the little confidence he possessed waned.

"It means 'The Good Citizen', silly Liet. And like, don't worry about the accent thing, I'LL totally teach you how to sound more French," the Pole reassured him with a wink.

"Since when have YOU been speaking the French?!" the Baltic nation was trembling at the idea of his fate being held in the manicured hands of his hipster-schoolgirl best friend.

"Like, where do you think all of these clothes come from, hun? I practically LIVE on the fashion runways of Paris," Feliks replied dismissively.

Toris sighed as his friend slipped the clips from his teeth and into his own brown hair.

"Gerai."*

Later

The older Baltic nation arrived at the gate of the orphanage wearing a green pleated miniskirt, a red sweater and brown loafers, all courtesy of Feliks' 'Carven* collection'. In his hand was a camcorder – Eduard had insisted that he made use of all of his state-of-the-art filming equipment, but Toris argued that Francis might get anxious if he was surrounded by cameras. They finally agreed that they had to be as soft as possible in their approach, and Toris had to appear as inconspicuous as possible.

"My name is Màrie Bardot,"* Toris reminded himself as he mentally revised the French accent Feliks' had taught him just hours before. "Je, tu, vous, je tu, vous, je tu-"

"Can I help you, Madame?" enquired a familiar French voice from behind Toris. The Lithuanian hadn't realised that he had been eyeing up the gates of the orphanage for some time now as he psyched himself up to enter. Toris slowly turned his head to face his target, mentally screaming at Eduard and Feliks for putting him in this situation.

"Sacré bleu, she is très beau!" Francis thought as the face of the girl in front him now came into his line of sight; long, full eyelashes; adorable red sweater that hung loosely from her small frame; short brown hair that framed her delicate features perfectly… she was attrayant indeed. He was wearing a simple white shirt with his tie tied loosely around his neck, and he now regretted not wearing something flashier.

"I-I umm... my name is Màrie," she whimpered, hands shaking around the Canon camcorder that she held. He grasped in his own hand a large canvas bag, the content of which was secret. He noticed that her accent was a little strange (Russian maybe?) but didn't question it; people came from all over the place nowadays after all. After a few moments of silence, it was evident the girl wasn't confident enough to elaborate about her identity.

"Bonjour Màrie, my name is Francis," he finally said with a bow, taking the girl's hand and kissing it lightly. He could have sworn she shivered slightly – the desired effect. She blushed and quickly looked away from him before finally responding.

"I—I'm here to report for Le Bon Citoyen in regards to the inhabitants of this establishment!" the girl spluttered breathlessly, taking Francis aback by her sudden abrasiveness.

"Oh, this old place? I was just heading in there myse-" he started, catching himself as if he'd let something slip that he shouldn't have. Toris knew exactly what that something was. Francis' hand went to the back of his neck as he continued, confidence visibly rattled. "Err, as I was saying, I can take you inside if you'd like?" he said, voice slightly higher in pitch than before.

"Oui, if you wouldn't mind" Toris accepted with a curtsy, now feeling a lot calmer. All he had to do now was get something good on tape and this cross-dressing-French-nightmare would be over. They walked side-by-side towards the high metal gate that encased the orphanage, and as Toris got closer he gazed through the gaps between each railing at the building inside – dilapidated. The initial shock struck him and he froze just as Francis buzzed the intercom to request entrance. The large, grey brickwork was crumbling and stained with moss, with chunks of wall hanging off by a thread; two small windows either side of the entrance were cracked, with yellowing lace curtains hanging limply on the other side. Beside a window there was a sign – Agnès Augustin Orphelinat de fille; an orphanage exclusively for girls. The front door of the building itself was made of thin wood and cracks had formed around the rusted keyhole. The lawn between the gate and the building was overgrown up to the waist with weeds. Toris had seen poverty before, he'd seen it in his own country, in his friend's countries, but seeing a man like Francis – well-dressed, well-manicured Francis - in immediate proximity to a place like this was difficult for Toris to comprehend. He sure was going to learn a lot about his fellow nations on this little crusade of his.

The crackling of the intercom brought Toris back to reality as they stepped through the gate and up to the shabby front door, through the forest of weeds. When they reached the entrance, Francis fished out a key that had matching rust to the lock of the door. Before he could fit it in the lock however, the door creaked open and a tiny voice floated out.

"Oncle Francis?"

At this the door swung wide as a stream of children - none taller than Toris' waist – blundered out onto porch, each one chiming "Francis!" "Oncle Francis!" "Big brother Francis is here~". Toris stepped back to allow the children full access to the French nation and observed – there were now at least 25 little girls clamouring around, hugging and laughing and throwing their tiny fists in the air with joy. Francis himself had a huge smile on his face, azure eyes wrinkled with joy as he wrapped his arms around as many kids as possible in a collective hug. Toris took a closer look at each individual child: they were all wearing similar moth-bitten frocks and most only wore socks on their tiny feet. Their hair was untamed and their faces grubby, but each girl wore a brilliant smile on their dirty faces as they looked up in admiration at Francis. Toris was about to tear up just as Francis spoke –

"Ah, mes petits chéris, what have you all been getting up to? You are a mess mon amour!" he said as he knelt down to cup the face of one of the girls with his hands.

"Living and loving! Just like you told us Oncle Francis!" the girl beamed from between his palms, prompting the rest of the children to chime "All you need is love!" and "Love is life!"

"You have been enjoying yourself then, eh? Come, let us go inside" the girls cheered at Francis' request as he ushered them back into the rundown building. He herded them from behind and fell back beside Toris when they had all gone inside.

"That was…" Toris couldn't even form coherent thoughts at this point. During the huddling he had quickly turned on his camcorder and filmed the entire thing. Only now did he click the 'off' button.

Francis rubbed his neck and chuckled shyly (shy? Francis? SHY?). "Ah, oui, they can be… a handful."

"More like two arms full" Toris thought to himself. He looked up at the Frenchman incredulously, who in return gave him a sheepish grin.

"Let's go in, shall we?" beckoned Francis.

"You don't mind if I film in here do you? Only it's simpler than writing everything I see," Toris asked as they made their way down the corridor of the ramshackle children's home.

"Ah-ok," Francis replied hesitantly "As long as you promise to pixelate this for me," he said, gesturing to his own head.

"It is so very unlike Francis to deliberately hide his face," Toris pondered inwardly. "He is so often saying things like 'Le world has been blessed with the majestic beauty that is Francis Bonnefoy'". This only spiked Toris' curiosity more as he was led beyond the door and into the hallway of the orphanage.

"That is not a problem." Toris lied. "May I also ask – are there no staff working here? I haven't seen any around, and the children appeared as if they have not been bathed."

"There are usually trois employees 'ere, but today is their day off. The girls do not usually look so dishevelled, but I guess they have been playing stick-in-the-mud, or something like this. When the employees are not here, I…" he cast his eyes downwards, embarrassed about the regularity of his visits.

"How often are their days off then?" Toris urged. He was fascinated by the French nation's (previously unknown) compassion towards these children.

They reached a pair of double doors at the end of the hall, and before Francis could answer the question he threw them open with a flourish.

"Let the party commencer!"

The doors opened to a small, round room that was thinly carpeted. There was a small fireplace at the far end with a pair of bellows resting beside it. A window stood over the fireplace, framing the brilliant blue sky above. The girls were scattered around the room, each grasping a thin pillow between their tiny arms. Toris softly pushed the 'on' button of his camcorder. They were now smiling up at Francis expectantly as he held out the large canvas bag he had been carrying. The French nation knelt down and gently rummaged around in it, until he slowly pulled out three bottles of nail varnish – "what on Earth…?" Toris thought – and held them high over his head.

"Activité un: manicures!" Francis announced, beaming at the children. They erupted into a roar of cheering as they ran towards their beloved carer, hugging and kissing and scrambling all over him with gratitude. One particularly small girl – Toris reckoned she was no older than five – was now perched on the French nation's shoulders, tiny hands knotted into his silky blonde hair. Francis sat down where he was (it was impossible to move through the gaggle of children) as the girl in front of him sat herself on his lap.

"Ah Émilie, it looks like you have the honour of going first," Francis chimed, "Which colour would you préférer?" He held up the three bottles – rose red, cerise pink and sky blue. Émilie's eyes widened and she immediately pointed at a bottle:

"Bleu! Bleu!" she exclaimed as she bounced on the nations lap excitedly.

And so Toris stood at the back of the room, quietly documenting an hour of this; Francis called each girl up individually to sit on his knee – 26 in total, Toris had counted – to get their nails glossed. The Lithuanian was holding the camcorder to his face, recording the ecstatic squeals of the orphans. Francis' face relaxed into a tender smile, cobalt eyes sparkling with content. He carefully dotted their nails with colour, asking each girl how they were doing and what had happened to them since the last time he had visited. The last child now leapt from his lap, examining her shiny new fingernails as the rest of the girls sat around Francis, giggling and comparing colours. The French nation then brought the bag to his lap and took out five paddle hair brushes, one at a time. He gave four of the brushes to the girls closest to him and ordered them to form a chain of six people: one girl sat between the nation's legs, another girl sat between her legs and so on. Francis softly drew the brush through the girl's untamed mane, murmuring "You must take better care of yourself, ma chérie." over her shoulder. She did the same to the girl in front and so on. When the hair of these five children was tamed, another five took their place. They repeated this process until every single girl had beautiful, knot-free locks.

"Now it is Oncle Francis' turn!" one of the girls trilled, and all of them piled around him as Francis chuckled loudly. Three girls had loosened his hair from its ponytail and were running hairbrushes through his ashy waves. Another three girls were carefully painting his short nails with all three of the shades he had brought. They lacked Francis' finesse however, so he ended up with a scraggly mess of red, pink and blue on his fingertips. The French nation happily blew the varnish dry though, ignoring the mess they'd made of his perfectly manicured fingernails.

From the fireplace window, Toris could see the Sun had begun to set as low orange rays streamed through the glass. The girls had now finished with Francis makeover: he now had a multi-coloured manicure; his tie had been turned into a neckerchief and his hair ribbon was now a bow atop his head. The children were quieter now, their energy spent mercilessly over the past three hours.

"It looks like it is nearly time to sleep, mes beauties," Francis stated. He was met with grumbles from the girls, who wanted to stay awake as long as possible to spend more time with their favourite guardian. Francis shuffled on his hands and knees towards the fireplace, pulling a matchbox from his pocket as he went; it was easier to move around now that the girls were dozing off, so he reached it in no time. He arranged the sticks and coals within the open hearth before lighting a match and tossing it in. The flame slowly grew, enveloping the whole room with a warm, flickering glow. The girls started sleepily toddling towards Francis, who was using the bellows to feed oxygen to the fire. They set their pillows down and curled up amongst him as he sat back and encircled the smallest girls in his arms. Francis was stroking their hair and whispering to them softly in French - Toris couldn't understand what he was saying but guessed he was reassuring them into sleep. The Frenchman's murmuring became quieter and quieter and when Toris gazed around the entirety of the room he could see that every single girl was now sleeping peacefully. Francis himself was still holding two dozing girls – Toris recognised Émilie's face buried in his chest – in his arms, his own head resting on Émilie's. Toris cleared his throat quietly and the French nation looked up with sleepy sapphire eyes. The Lithuanian turned the camcorder off.

"It has been a long day, oui?" Francis said softly as he gently lowered Émilie and the other child onto a pillow. He stood up smoothly and gracefully tiptoed between the tiny sleeping bodies until he reached Toris. "Would you like a ride home Madame?"

Toris simply nodded.

Francis phoned an escort to come pick him and the Lithuanian up. Toris fretted about leaving the girls alone, but Francis reassured him that the employees would return before it got dark. When their lift arrived, Toris explained that he had been staying in a hotel (texting a warning to Feliks that he should hide until the Frenchman was gone) and tried pushing Francis to answer his questions, but the French nation claimed that he was simply too exhausted to talk right now. The drive back was silent afterwards, as Francis worked to extract the ribbon from his hair and redo his tie. Toris kept an eye on him the whole time, seeing a small smile play on the Frenchman's lips as he examined his tricolour manicure. They finally arrived at Toris' hotel and he thanked the driver before stepping out. Francis followed.

"I hope the footage you got was helpful," said Francis as he threaded out of the car.

"Ye-Oui,, it was… enlightening," stammered Toris nervously. He was overwhelmed by the events he had witnessed over the last four hours and just wanted to get inside and sleep it off.

"Remember, and it pains me to say this, but I don't want anyone seeing this gorgeous face," the Frenchman insisted.

"Why not?" Toris blurted, and before he knew it he couldn't stop the words pouring from his mouth. "There is no shame in what you are doing for these children, and you deserve some kind of recognition for tha-"

Francis held up his hand to halt the disguised Baltic nation. "Non."

The Frenchman did not elaborate and the two just stared at each other in silence for a few moments. With a sigh, Francis continued – "I do not deserve recognition. I do not deserve praise and I do not want it – what I do for ces filles is to make up for all of the women I have wronged. The life I lead…" - Toris knew that he was referring to his immortal life as a nation - "…the life I lead forbids me to sustain relationships as a normal person would. I have left a lot of heartbroken people in this world in order to protect my identity, and this is just one step towards my redemption."

Toris never imagined Francis actually felt guilty about his sexual liaisons. He and every nation understood that getting a mortal girlfriend/boyfriend would only lead to heartbreak. Your partner would grow old and you would stay young, so unless you entered a relationship with another nation, you had to settle for casual sex with mortals (or just abstain from having sex with anyone, but who had the balls to do that?). It's a well-known fact that Francis Bonnefoy is rife with sexual desire - he's the country of love, after all - so what other choice did he have than to quench his desire and then disappear?

"I… I understand," the little Lithuanian nodded. "I better be going now…" he turned towards the hotel just as he felt Francis' hand clasp his own.

"Bonne nuit, Màrie. Hopefully we will meet again when I am a better man," the Frenchman said sadly as he bowed and pecked Toris' hand with his lips.

"You are a good man, Francis Bonnefoy," Toris said softly, turning and walking towards the door to the hotel lobby. Just as Toris had was turning his key into the lock, Francis called after him –

"Attendez, how did you know my surna-" Toris slammed the door quickly behind him, cutting off the Frenchman's question.

"Phew… that was the close one," Toris panted from inside the hotel foyer, speaking with his normal Lithuanian accent now that he was alone.

"One down, a whole lot more to go…"

Notes

*Gerai - 'OK' in Lithuanian

*Carven - a French clothing brand. I doubt they actually produce anything I described here (imagine if they did though...)

*Màrie Bardot - Màrie/Marie is a common name shared with many famous French women (Marie Curie, Marie Antoinette, etc.). Brigitte Bardot is a French actress and sex symbol (Oh Toris, if only you knew...)

So my headcannon is that the nations have enough money themselves to live comfortably, but not so much that they can just throw thousands of pounds/dollars/euros/WHATEVER at every unfortunate person that they come across. Of course they can help a little, that's what this whole fic is about, but the nations cannot just wipe out poverty on command (there will always be poverty somewhere in the world anyway).