Hello, everyone! This is my first Hetalia fanfic as well as the first part of a collection I'm calling Horrible Bosses. It will be about each country as they deal with terrible rulers they've had at any point in history. This one is about France, and his interactions with Louis XVI, who ended up being King during the French Revolution in 1789. I hope you enjoy it! When there's a lot of dialogue, I use a lot of simple French. I won't be putting translations in unless you readers want them, in which case PM me or leave it in the review if you have time! Thanks so much!

-Keyblader41996

France
1774
Le Château de Versailles, Galerie des Glaces

The King is dead! Louis XV is dead! Long live Louis XVI!

France had to ignore it.

He had to. He had to push through.

He had to ignore the queasiness; the anxiety; the odd pressure in his head.

He had things to do, a country to run, a King to settle in.

Back and forth, back and forth, pacing nervously in front of (what used to be) Louis XV's throne, wringing his hands like he was trying to throttle them. He had to ignore the physical symptoms of the power vacuum. And yet, he couldn't figure out why it was was so hard. Why was it hitting him harder now than ever before? Why couldn't he adjust?

France saw his fair share of monarchs in his long, immortal life. He should be used to this irritating, persistent pain in his chest and lungs - he could expect it for the next month or two as the entire Court scrambled to settle Louis XV's affairs. He should be used to the political chaos, the people's mourning. Whether Louis XV was a good monarch or not, a sort of melancholy had still spread over the cities and country-sides of France and cloaked the Nation's heart in heavy lead.

France snorted indignantly. This was only the initial phase! After this came the nausea for the remainder of the time until Louis XVI settled in. God, he couldn't let it distract him! If he wasn't careful, the bourgeoisie and the Courtiers would work with (pay off?) Parliament and legislation on the sly. They would implement whatever changes they wanted while they were still King-free.

And of course, they would never asked France for his opinion or his suggestions. To them, he was just a random 18 year old kid (ahem) who, by some miraculous circumstance won his place next to Louis XV. They didn't trust him, and even if they did France would only be a block to their agendas. Granted, they didn't know of his status as a Nation, only that Louis XV left specific instructions regarding France's consent on all matters. And they ripped France in all different directions, and his body did flip-flops trying to adjust to new orders as it changed his people and his country.

God, the nausea! It was bad as soon as Louis XV died. It only got worse since Louis XVI was officially named from Dauphin to successor.

Which meant the people didn't support the new King. Which sent his body into even more turmoil.

Oh. Right. That was why it felt like he was drowning in the symptoms, unable to swallow them down and push through.

France did not attend the coronation. He felt particularly ill that day and missed out, bedridden with headaches. The worst experience he had on behalf of Louis XVI was when the Dauphin married the Austrian beauty, Marie Antoinette. The people's hatred and discontent for her heritage bled into France so badly he developed a fever, and a terrible temper. One day it rose so high he collapsed, delusional in a feverish rage. He yelled, screamed, fumed at Louis XV and anybody that came near including his personal doctor. They wrestled him into bed, and he spent the rest of the week alternating between calling Louis XV a traitor to France for arranging their union, and throwing up his guts. So NOT a beautiful moment for the beautiful France.

The distant clang of church bells ripped France out of his reverie with a start. 14:00. His crystalline blue eyes locked on the door for any signs of life. Louis should have arrived a half hour ago. After a few good minutes of staring he sighed in frustration, then exhaustion. His pointy-toed shoes made loud, articulated clicks on the immaculate marble floor while he resumed his pacing.

He quickly scolded himself. "Calm down, France! Meeting the King should not be this stressful! At this rate, you'll need a powdered wig just to hide your grey hairs," he thought to himself absently. He adjusted the bottom of his silk, lavender vest, re-fluffed his cravat, and smoothed his skin-tight beige pantaloons, chuckling miserably to himself. He knew the real reason why he was so nervous, and if he was totally honest with himself, it wasn't the people making him feel as sick as he was. France didn't spend centuries glancing over the shoulders of rulers for nothing. A 19 year old young man who was walking into: the backlash of the Seven Years' War loss; the loss of countless French territories and foreign footholds; the War of Austrian Succession that Louis XV so carelessly joined; the entire country on the brink of debt; and general public discontent didn't hold France's vote of confidence.

Not that the Nation couldn't be proved wrong - he certainly had been before. His first impression of Charlemagne upon his early years as a Nation was that he was a battle-obsessed nimrod, fighting for the sake of fighting just so that he wouldn't have to play with la petite France. Of course, he was a child back then, with a child's view of a 'meanie' like Charlemagne. He learned later, naturally, that it was for expansion and unification purposes, and not war for the sake of war, or for spiting him.

Sure, he was wrong before, and he was sure to be wrong again. But something stubborn jabbing him in the pit of his stomach that he was sure wasn't his skin-tight waistband left him feeling unconvinced that he would be wrong about Louis XVI.

France sighed, glaring tiredly up at the ceiling. Luckily for him, the gilt frames around the beautiful stillness of captured people and tamed nature grabbed his attention. He stared from painting to painting, making out what details he could with the ceiling being so high. Even his sharpened senses as a Nation couldn't make out some of the finer details of the art. It was pointless, then, to build the palace like this, he thought, absently stroking the purple ribbon in his hair and twirling the end of his blond ponytail around his finger. He hated those powdered wigs. They were itchy, they smelled after a while, they looked ridiculous-even to him! And if a fashion statement upset France, well, then it really had to be bad.

He guessed that by the time he finished staring another half hour passed. A whole hour late! This young man was not scoring very high marks already.

France's stomach did a little flip.

"Mon Dieu," he breathed, massaging his temples against the sudden onslaught of a headache. He hoped Louis, whatever he was like, settled in quickly, if only for France's sake. Then the council and the people at court and Parliament would settle in. France would force them to send things to le Roi one issue at a time. It was France's job, or, Monsieur Bonnefoy, to step in as chief advisor and help him take the proper course of action to ensure the country's well-being and prosperity. It was his job to lead le Roi through the garbage of court, the machinations of courtiers and Parliament, help him block out who needed blocked out, keep his head clear so he could see the core of the issues and make smart political decisions.

France could advise him on what to do to solve issues, but because he was a Nation, and because his government was an absolute monarchy, he couldn't force his King to do anything. The King had ultimate power, and all final decisions rested with him. He could listen to France if he wanted to, or he could not. And if he did not, well, France was out of luck. Louis XV didn't listen to France about the War of Austrian Succession. He didn't listen to France about proper taxation. He didn't listen to France when he told him to walk with more guards, did he? Non! Non, bien sûr que non! He left France in lost-war-caused debt, social uprising, and he luckily survived that assassination attempt! The country was slowly plummeting down the chamber pots because the king didn't have to listen to their own National Personification.

And then there was also that other little quirk that the Absolute Monarchial Nations had to deal with: there was some genetically-encoded . . . compulsion in the Nations. Anytime their leaders gave them a direct, concise order, they were forced to follow it. They couldn't help it. It just wasn't in their National power to disobey for some reason. So if one day Louis XVI said, "Francis, leave the Palace and never come back..."

France was overreacting. "You haven't even met him, stupide!"

That wasn't entirely true. Louis had been born in Versailles. France interacted with him as a baby and small child on a few short occasions. If France recalled correctly, he had an odd obsession with locks. He liked taking them apart and putting them back together, tinkering with them, discovering how they work. And he rarely talked. France hardly saw the boy at all, spending a majority of his time in Louis XV's office. And then the boy was whisked away for tutoring, and the other menial aspects of a royal upbringing. Not like how it used to be in the Medieval Era when France would educate the Dauphin on politics, war, economics, the works.

France supposed it was a bad time to bring back his nickname for Louis XVI from back then, 'mon petit Prince.'

France's heels and shoe buckle resumed their cadence, a click with a slight undertone of articulated clack as he slowly paraded back and forth like a puppy that lost its master in a thick crowd.

He sighed again and finally decided to take a seat - not on Sa Majesté's throne, that would be treasonous no matter how elegant and stylish it looked. Plus, he had yet to discover the nature of this new King's temperament. He instead opted for a posh gold couch placed dejectedly off to one side of the literal seat of power. The gold clashed pleasingly with the soft, quiet lavender of his vest and coat, and matched the gold embroidered trim on both. France paused and checked his image in one of the mirrors, readjusting and re-fluffing. He flicked the back of his long coat out from under him before sitting.

No sooner had he touched the cushion that the heavy mahogany door opened and an entourage strolled in. France jumped up, expecting to come face-to-face with King Louis Auguste de Capet XVI himself. Instead, the group was headed by an upstanding member of the King's Court. France quickly picked his brain for the man's name, but it didn't come to him before he greeted France with a low bow. "Monsieur! C'est très bon de vous voir!" France just had to hope a situation never came around where he had to use his name.

"Et vous aussi, Monsieur," France said, also bowing in reply.

He leaned in to France and whispered into his ear. "Sorry we are so late. Sa Majesté was a little nervous to meet you. He is very, very shy."

France remembered. Barely speaking when directly spoken to, forgoing conversation for the hunt. France heard even worse rumors when he still stood next to Louis XV. He heard about the awkward royal couple that were too shy to consummate their ill-favored union. He knew the things that were whispered about the talented locksmith Louis who was too timid and embarrassed to "find the keyhole," if you caught France's drift. He just ignored them, strategically avoiding the realization that he may soon have a coward on his hands, and no heir.

He pulled away from France and turned towards a young man, tall in stature and well-proportioned, if a tiny bit on the plump side. Only, he lost a few inches because he kept his head down. His powdered wig held two white curls on either side of his full face, hiding a lightly brown natural color. He had small lips and eyes which added to his meek appearance. They flicked up to France momentarily and greyish-blue connected with vibrant, crystalline blue. And for a second France saw the true emotion driving Louis-Auguste: fear. He tried hard to hide it, though, attempting instead to opt for a dead, vacant, and unreadable expression. A blush colored Louis' face and ruined the effect. His eyes flicked elsewhere and he played at the lace trailing from his sleeves, a nervous tic.

"I wonder who the idiot was that taught him Court etiquette. He'll be eaten alive if he is not assertive, or at least confident," France thought miserably.

The cravat around Louis' neck and the royal cloak hastily concealed the rest of him, like he subconsciously wanted to bury his discomfort and just be swallowed up. The cloak itself was thick blue velvet with a fur collar, embroidered with thick, heavy houndstooth. Fleur-de-lis all over it. Around them on the velvet were gold and blue patterns woven so intricately it left France dizzy after staring for too long. The colors were beautiful, and pleasing to France's eye. Obviously a fashionable man that cared about his appearance. But what about political matters?

France swallowed the uncertainty that rose in his throat like bile and stepped up to the man, drawing a bit below eye level. To his dismay, Louis' eyes slid away from him to the floor, the wall, anywhere but his face. France still laid his best charm on thick and flashed his most dazzling smile, offering his hand to Louis XVI delicately.

"Mon Roi," he purred smoothly, bowing his head.

France could sense Louis' red faced hesitation, and he raised only his eyes to see the King's body turn slightly. He glanced almost pleadingly at who France could only guess was a governor or tutor. The man nodded and Louis finally pressed his soft hand in France's. The Nation dropped to a knee before him and kissed the crest of Bourbon House on his ring before releasing his hand.

He wasn't supposed to get up, not until His Majesty told him to, so he respectfully stayed in his position, head bowed low, kneeling in front of the uncertain man before him.

"I hope he's not shy enough to feel he needs approval for everything. This does not bode well."

Waiting, waiting, waiting awkwardly in the silence for someone to say something.

A soft voice squeezed itself from between Louis XVI's tiny lips, "...rryocortrmm..." He trailed off at the end.

"U-um, excusez-moi?" France asked.

"Speak up, Majesté. You are the King now," a Court member instructed him.

"Are you a Courtier, Monsieur?" he asked France a little louder.

France looked up into Louis' face and tried to read Louis' expression. There was a different glow to his diverted eyes that hadn't been there before, but the rest of his face was still forcibly cold. France realized he was trying to look disinterested. He was trying to seem hard to read. Why, France had to figure out.

"Oui, I attend Court, but that is not my position here-"

"Parliament?" he asked suddenly.

France, confused, shook his head. "Non-"

"Bourgeoisie?"

"Non, Votre Maj-"

"Then you are the court composer?"

"Non, but I can play the pianoforte a bit, cello and violin, flute-"

"Then where is your wig, Monsieur?"

"My...my what?"

"Your wig, sir. It is the style of the upper class now. Everybody wears one. I didn't think you were part of the upper class because otherwise you would wear one," he said quietly.

Shy, but not uncandid. And extremely observant, France noted, a bit surprised by the extent to which he was. It readily confirmed that the dull expression was an act. He definitely was smarter than he allowed people to believe. But why? Why the act? If he was shy, then seeming smart and uneasy to fool should have been his wisest and most valuable career move. "I am of the upper class, Votre Majesté. I am to be your chief adviser. There's still much to explain, but it's something we must discuss alone. Francis Bonnefoy, at your service." From his kneeling position on the floor he let his arm elegantly curl a few times in front of him in a cordial motion of a bow.

Awkward silence ensued again and France lowered his hand. He cleared his throat and shifted on the floor, in a sign of obvious discomfort.

"Votre Majesté, perhaps you should allow Monsieur Bonnefoy to stand. He's paid his proper respects."

Louis just grunted and France rose gratefully.

Either France was off his game, or Louis was just too unpredictable as a person. France couldn't get a solid grip on who he really was. Normally, he could coax a smile out of anybody upon their first meeting. His face was naturally beautiful, but he knew when to be soft and modest about it and when to let his confidence shine out of his face like sunbeams. He drew people to him. His body language was always inviting and approachable. He had great oratory skills and charisma. When he talked, people listened, and he was able to quiet a room with a single word. He could schmooze and negotiate with the best of them.

But Louis . . . Louis was a mystery to him. Resistant to every one of his tricks of charm. And he wasn't used to it at all.

"I want to go hunting," Louis announced softly, spinning on his heels. France again noticed that his eyes never ventured above anyone's vest buttons. He started walking out of the room to escape all the attention.

France started and followed after him, protesting loudly, "Ah, wait! I was hoping to discuss what I mentioned earlier with you now-"

"His Majesty is very tired. I'm sure after after a nice relaxing hunt to recharge, he'll be ready to discuss whatever you need, Monsieur Bonnefoy," a Court member said, already trying to get on his good side. He lightly pulled his arm, and Louis offered no resistance.

France followed hastily and ran around the group, stopping directly in front of the King. "Votre Majesté, this isn't something that should wait. I'd like to explain the . . . nuances of my position, and-"

Louis waved him aside annoyingly. "Oui, oui, we will talk later. Jean," he said, turning to another of his group, "fetch Marie. Tell her where I am headed."

He left without another word to France.

France's first impression: timid, as they said. But he was quietly observant, sharp, and he possessed the ability to analyze, based on the wig comment. And yet he purposefully hid it. He kept up with fashion like a true French nobleman, and respected popular culture and couture. But he was too shy for his own good. Unable to have an opinion of his own. He was viable to be led around blindly until he learned to trust Francis. Even then he didn't seem like he would listen very well.

The kind of man France needed in a time like this? Absolutely not.

France ran a nervous hand through his sunlight colored locks, messing up the ribbon and pulling out the ponytail.

It was going to be a bumpy ride. And France wasn't sure if his stomach could handle it.

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