Story about this...story. Okay so i started this last week and just wrote in it little by little every once in a while. So this had a really good plan in the beginning, but i kept putting the story off that i just thought 'ugh fuck it, i need to finish this.' and just made the ending come faster than i wanted it to. Originally i was going to make the ending TOTALLY different...ah well :/

Anyway so bottom line is- if you guys want a second part wholly from Francis' 3rd person POV then tell me :)

Hope you guys like it!

I do not own characters.

Was this piece of paper truly this heavy? No, it had to be him. It was god-forsaken piece of paper, his ticket to Canada, his home. His life starts as soon as he hands this seemingly weighty slip to the mumbling lady standing at the luggage claim.

Canada, where Kimu…Kumi…. his polar bear was waiting for him. No one hurt him there, unlike here. It was funny how he had always admired the French, now he never wants to here that dreadful accent ever again. He shook his head, the stubborn curl bouncing. He shouldn't generalize a whole nation due to one person's repulsive actions.

He looked behind him at the automatic doors, what was he looking for? What did he expect to see? It was ridiculous, this wasn't a cheesy romance where the ex-boyfriend runs out of the house after the heart-broken damsel, begging for an apology. Especially counting the fact that said ex-boyfriend was Francis Bonnefoy, or France, the country of love and romance. He could just gag.

Instantly the name ringing through his thoughts made his fists clench and eyes feel a wet pressure brimming. Mathew forced his head away from the desolate, focusing instead on the dragging line in front of him. Part of him though kept pulling him back to reflections about Francis. He was becoming irritated that he couldn't get the horrid man out of his head, like a bad song.

Now, as he stood in the middle of the airport, he thought back to how he had ended up in the taxi that drove him to where he is. It was almost as if his mind had recorded the whole even and Mathew can press the play button any time.

Canada had been pleasantly surprised that the nations had actually remembered him this time when he was sent the invitation for the conference being held in France. He hadn't had any significant feelings for France up until this world conference. However when that charming stubble peppered face had tipped his wine glass at him from across the table, his heart had skipped more than a single beat. Yes, he had been the Canadian's former guardian, but to his speculation, that could have been the drive to their intimacy. In fact the whole 'papa' thing really turned both of them on…

That had been a year ago, a year that was filled with nothing but sweet sugary words, intimacy like no other, swooning gestures, and regrettably vulnerability.

It was France's birthday, only fourteen days after his own. Now Mathew was not a romantic, spontaneous person. He always preferred for a plan to everything, simplicity had its appeal as well. Still…this was France and he always had surprises and loving things for Canada all the time, not just special occasions.

If he could make Francis feel the same way he does when confronted with such affectionate arrangements, then he would risk stepping out of his comfort zone to go a tad more exuberant direction. He had such a foolish idealistic mindset.

Mathew had created a plan where Italy, Germany, America, Prussia, Spain, and England would each have a letter. They would be assigned a specific place in Paris and each letter would hold a clue to where and who he would have to meet to achieve the next letter.

It had been a beautiful day, blue sky and all. France had magnificently made through the scavenger hunt all the way to England. Spain had just texted Mathew about Francis successfully deciphering his own letter.

It wouldn't be long before France would come to see in awe his little lover standing on the deck of a boat, a romantic dinner ready for a lovely night on the Seine river.

Mathew was positively elated, everything was going wonderfully and he was actually have a great time! He noted to himself that he should do this more often, now he understood why France loved to surprise him so much.

That euphoria died down though as more time passed and Mathew was becoming antsier. He looked at the watch and did some mental calculations. On average it had taken Francis five to ten minutes to figure out the clues, then a varying amount of time to travel from each place to place. Arthur was positioned at a hotel just five minutes away with car from where he had the boat.

So why was it taking Francis half an hour to get here?

He bit his lip and pulled out his phone, scrolling for England's name. He texted him with anxious fingers.

Did France get there?

Mathew sat with his foot tapping for five minutes, but received no reply.

Hello? Did he get there? Is everything all right?

This time he waited ten more minutes for any sign of acknowledgement. He sighed and stood up from the table, scooting his chair back then made his way to the dock.

When he arrived at the hotel lobby, he looked for any hint of either of the two nations, but only found crowds of rushing and bustling tourists. His eyebrows furrowed, he walked around the foyer, tilting his head every direction.

With a huff, he walked to the counter and asked in French if the woman working there had seen a longhaired blonde, wearing a purple flashy outfit. She looked at him blankly, and then her eyes lit up with recognition. She motioned down one of the halls and said something vaguely about an empty meeting room.

He frowned, nodded, and instantly became suspicious. His mind became riddled with questions as he walked to the room she had pointed out. They were supposed to stay in the lobby.

Not allowing himself to think of what he was about to do, he wrenched the door open.

You know when people say that they can feel their hearts break? Mathew felt his heart shatter, and then those pieces got stomped on, only to be blown away with a blowtorch. In short, his whole face paled, mouth fell, and even a small whimper had escaped him.

Francis was facing away from the door, pinning Arthur to the table and kissing him with more vehemence than he had ever done for Mathew. That pitiful squeak though had abruptly pushed the French man to his feet, an apology already bursting from his flushed features.

"Mon petit ange…" He had started, but Mathew's whole mind was under an unwelcome pressure and pain, so before anything else could happen he ran out of the room. France had run out of the room after him, leaving a flushed England behind.

"Mathue attends!" He didn't listen to that commanding voice quickly closing behind him.

"Mathue! Please!" Francis grabbed his wrist, with an angered turn and a stunning uncharacteristic rage; he slapped the long haired blonde right in his guilt ridden face,

"Don't. Touch. Me." Mathew couldn't imagine that the hurt can recoil off of the Frenchman and burst onto him, but the sinking weight in his chest revealed that he had only hurt himself even more than he already had been. France's touches were what started the relationship. It was his favorite aspect in the relationship. Now it made him end the relationship.

It was a saddening realization that the last touch from that once loved man would be out of guilt. No more loving caresses or caring embraces, just a regretful tug at his wrist.

As he slipped into the taxi, he didn't know if luck was pissing on him or raining on him when the cab had passed at that perfect moment. It could have been a sign of some sort, but he didn't care right then and there. If getting in that car meant getting away from France, he would have gotten into a car with no breaks and Italy as the driver.

After he had gone to his hotel suit, a very expensive and lavish room reserved for a night of l'amore, he had hopped onto yet another cab heading to the airport.

He neared the lady at the counter, but he took a risk and looked back once more at the doors behind him with a hidden hope.

Only to have it buried with affirmed doubts and declaratives of his foolishness. He reminded himself as he handed the ticket to the lady, that this was reality, this was Francis, and this was the end.

Unlike the movies, this end lacked any happiness.

Maybe he could call Gilbert? Sure he was an ex, but he was a friend. Someone who not only notices him but also makes him laugh and smile. Canada's mouth twitched into a rare beam, but faltered when the fact that Gilbert was best friends with Francis hit him right in his face. On account of Alfred's extreme overprotective 'heroic' qualities, he would probably make things worst than better. Plus Canada isn't the vengeful type of person, even though the idea of sending his brother, a superpower to be reckoned with, to France's doorstep is rather tempting. There was his only female friend, Ukraine. Girls like to talk about this relationship stuff, right? Then again she would just cry and it would end in Mathew trying to comfort her, rather than the other way around.

He really didn't have anyone else…No, he is a grown and independent nation. He does not need to vent to anyone…Except maybe (Kimuku? Kumijiki?) his polar bear can listen instead.

With the amount of times he had said the words 'I'm okay' to himself, he was almost starting to believe himself. Clinging to that small ounce of false belief, it allowed him to board his plane slipping into his empty seat row, unnoticed of course by passengers also boarding, and falling into a mind erasing sleep.

He woke about four hours into the flight when the flight attendant had gently shaken his shoulder to ask about his food choice. It was depressingly dim in the cabin and some snores and gentle breaths were heard. He was stunned that she had actually noticed him and a tad bit irritated that she had, sleeping was the only thing that kept him from shattering.

"Uh…I'll just have the pesto please." He said with little care.

"Moi aussi."

No was his impulsive thought. No, he will not raise his hopes. No, he will not turn his head. No, he will not cry. No, this was not real. No, this was not happening.

No, Francis is not sitting next to him.

"Mon cher…" Something touched his wrist causing a whimpered sob to escape him. He shook his head violently, his frail fists curled tighter on the arm rests. No.

"Please, Mathue look at me." And he did. His violet hues gave into their need to see sparkling blue. His whole body shook and he made a noise somewhere between a gasp, a sigh, and a sob.

Faster than he could stop himself, he unbuckled his belt and threw himself at the handsome French man sitting beside him. "Oh Francis—"

"I am so sorry, mon Mathue. Mon dieu I am so sorry for hurting you." The older's arms wrapped around his back and tightened, Mathew made his own interlocked behind his neck. He hid his tear-streaked face in rose scented locks.

"Why France? Why did you-you do this?" He whispered, feeling hurt again, but refusing to let go.

"I don't know…Arthur should—"

"Non, I mean why did you come back? What made you t-think that I w-would take you back?"

Canada pulled back and looked at the French man with a sad curiosity. His eyes shined eagerly for an answer.

France brushed a few strands, hanging in front of his face behind his ear before answering. "I did not. I think that a little bit of me wanted you to hate me, but I would not let you go unknowing of my regret. I never wanted to do anything to hurt you and I have been trying very hard so I wouldn't," His eyes lowered with guilt, "except I ended up screwing everything up…"

Mathew felt his chest swell and throat lump. This man was truly sorry, so sorry that he had somehow raced to the airport and with a disturbing amount of cunning, jumped on the same plane he was on. Without realizing, he chuckled to himself.

"Tu es fou," Francis looked up with a slight flush, but still looked hopeful. "…mais…Je t'aime." His sapphire eyes widened and shone brightly, with a swooping motion he grabbed the other's face and pulled him into a bruising kiss.

A loud roar of cheers surrounded them, the cabin lights flicking on. The pouring light unveiled all of the people who had helped with France's scavenger hunt. All the nations cheered, Gilbert and Alfred slapping him on the back, while Ludwig calmed Feliciano from jumping onto the seat. Spain gave Francis a thumbs up and as for England, he stood up and quieted everyone down.

Mathew flushed scarlet and changed his position on France's lap so that his back rested against the armrest, while his arms stayed wrapped around the blonde's neck.

He looked to Canada with an apology swimming in his green eyes before he even opened his mouth. He walked a little closer to the Canadian, "Mathew…I-I don't think I can ever put to words how sorry I am for ruining your plan. It was bloody selfish and I acted like a child. I'm so sorry."

Mathew looked up at his father figure. He smiled softly then nodded. "It's alright Arthur."

The Englishman smiled and nodded, looking at Francis. He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "…Bloody frog." He mumbled then fell back into his own seat.

France growled, stopped abruptly at the sound of a sweet laugh coming from his lover, then turned with a smile and kissed his little Mathue on the lips.

Canada kissed lovingly, taking in the taste and affection given from the apposing man with time. His ears filled with the lively voices and coos from his friends, his mouth filled with nothing but France's lips, and he could distinctly feel his Frenchman's fingers tracing circles and wrapping tenderly around his wrist.