France was the first to notice.
Not notice him, per say, but to notice the air about him as he wandered, moved, or stared at his unmarred wrists contemplatively.
France could practically taste the needy desperation hanging off of Canada.
France hated seeing his sweet former colony so sad. And so he did what he did best to make him happy again.
Yes, Matthieu was sweet indeed. He doubted he ever had a lover more responsive, more fresh and clean, like some pale morning flower with the most delicate pink center, drops of dewy innocence still clinging to its petals in the dawn. He was the epitome of virginity even after being debauched most thoroughly, a childlike innocence seeped inexorably in his soul.
And so when, with that same innocence, he asked France a question afterwards, with frantically adoring violet-blue eyes and come running out of his pretty little hole, France had answered as he would to a child; Of course I love you, Matthieu. J'te aime beaucoup. Canada smiled blissfully.
France left Canada the same day.
The news spread quickly through the nations as it was wont to do. The other nations had been surprised Canada had been had, and weren't just a little curious, either. France obliged them with stories of soft and pale and mewling and 'please…'.
Needless to say, it was only about a week until Russia came back with his own tales. As did Cuba. Switzerland. Denmark. Prussia. Turkey. Norway. Austria. Even Egypt.
France had not anticipated his petit Matthieu becoming so popular. It had furrowed his brow, but that had quickly stopped – pensiveness was unattractive.
France didn't see him again until the next meeting, several months later. Canada had been delicate last time. Now, he was nothing short of fragile.
When France asked if he was okay, Canada nodded yes, just tired. That had brought quite the chuckle from many around the table, and not a few winks. France watched the nation fold into himself before his very eyes.
France may be a pervert, but he was nowhere near heartless or cruel.
He brought Canada home that day, assuring him it was only to talk. The smaller man had shrugged and followed.
It broke his heart that the moment they walked through the door, Matthieu walked up to his room and kneeled on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, his head down so his hair covered his face.
He took Canada's hand and coaxed him to sit on the edge of the mattress with him, gently brushing the hair out of his eyes. He stroked his face and blond waves and brushed away the tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes.
Why? France asked.
Because, he answered, only afterwards will they tell me they love me.
That night, France took Canada to bed and worshipped him in every way Canada needed.
He pressed his lips to every inch of Canada's face except his lips. He unbuttoned the cuffs of Matthieu's sleeves and gently kissed and traced the newly healing scars there. His hands glided over his clothed back, but went no lower. He cradled Matthieu in his arms and whispered J'te aime, Je suisdésolé until his mouth was dry and his lips numb and Matthieu had stopped crying before falling asleep.
France stayed when morning came.
~End~
