Forgive me any OOCness. ^^ This is a cross between Hetalia and Nyotalia. Reviews are nice, but flames are not.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. NOTHING!
When France Meets France
Hetalia Universe
France, with a glass of wine in hand, stepped onto his balcony one summer evening. It was very warm, but there was a cool breeze that eased the sharp bite of the heat. The sun had already sunk behind the curve of the Earth, leaving a hazy glow to the world. Little bursts of light exploded all around; the lightening bugs were out. There was a soft chirping, from both crickets and sleepy birds, and the distant sound of crashing waves. The many trees, in spite of the wind, only made the smallest of sounds. Nature was playing its most peaceful melody.
His home was just ending its song. The lights, with the exception of the one shining brightly in the room behind him (his bedroom, to be precise), were all out. He had turned on some music, but the volume was low and didn't unduly interfere with nature's tune. In fact, the faint strands of Piaf only seemed to make the song lovelier. France hummed softly as he leaned a hip against the railing. He took sips of wine every now and again, but for the most part he was utterly absorbed in the perusal of the landscape.
His house fit in perfectly with the scene, he reflected. It was a large, beautiful place boasting three stories. The windows were very tall, as they stretched from floor to ceiling, and reflected the glittering sky. There were only a few balconies, as France had felt it detracted from the overall beauty of his château, and those few were rather small and all in the back, facing the Mediterranean Sea. There, directly beneath him, was a large patio. It had several tables, all of which had protective umbrellas, and was lined with fragrant flowers. The double doors leading to that area were large and elegant and made of clear glass. In the front, there was a small porch with three steps that led to a magnificent frosted glass door. A long driveway veered to one side before curving around in front of the porch and turning to connect back to itself, creating a circle filled with beautiful white flowers. A garage was located to the left of the house; it was not connected to the house, but there was a path leading to it. Besides the different doors and the balconies, the front and the back of the house were mirror images.
France, surrounded by beauty, was thoroughly enjoying himself. Or he was until an unholy racket erupted from below him.
Startled, he nearly dropped his wine. Of course, he was far too graceful to do that, but it was a near thing. He glanced down to see an irate woman glaring up at him. She was lovely; he could see her hair was a darker blond than his own, but he couldn't tell what color her eyes were. She had on a purple cape that obscured whatever else she wore. He smiled at her; she scowled. "Mademoiselle," he said smoothly, "what are you doing? Not that I begrudge your presence."
"Monsieur, you must tell me what you are doing in my home, drinking my wine." Though her expression remained irritated, her words dripped sweetness.
France raised his eyebrows. "Your home, you say? Ma chère, I fear you are mistaken. C'est la mienne (1). Now, won't you tell me who you are?" The last part was said coaxingly and with his most charming smile.
The corners of her lips curved upward before pressed back into a firm line. It was obvious that his charm was working, but she stubbornly refused to respond to it. The words she spoke were strangely familiar and surprised him. "Don't you recognize your own country?"
Nyotalia Universe
When France had awaken that morning, she could not have anticipated the events about to take place. Had she been able to, she probably would have stayed in bed and called Spain or Prussia. As it was, she lacked such foresight and instead went about her usual business. She dressed, put her hair and left her London hotel room. She had come to England for a world conference. As the meeting had adjourned the day before, she was a free agent. Her flight wasn't leaving until later that night, so she was left with time to twiddle her thumbs. She decided to go to England's house to bug the other woman.
She arrived at England's townhouse. After pressing the doorbell, she waited for a few minutes until the door was opened by a half-dressed America. America smiled cheerfully at France and asked, "What you doing here?" as she moved aside to allow the woman entrance.
"Time to kill," France responded. She took in America's disheveled hair, long T-shirt and lack of pants. A low groan came from behind her, and France turned to see a properly attired England.
The green-eyed nation appeared annoyed and said to America, "Why aren't you dressed? Put on some clothing."
The woman in question merely purred with a sultry glance towards England, "You weren't saying that earlier."
England's face flushed darkly, and she took a threatening step towards America. "Go." The latter complied, leaving tinkling laughter in her wake. After she let out an irritated breath, England turned to France. "Won't you leave, too?" she asked with chilly politeness.
France, ignoring her, walked into the living room. "But then you would miss me," she said blithely. She wandered over to an end table and picked up an embroidery hoop. It was a woodland scene with a centaur idly studying his surroundings.
England marched over to France and snatched the hoop away. "Don't mess with it," she grouched. She placed it back on the table. "Well, do whatever. Just don't go in the basement." As she left the room, "I'll be in the kitchen making breakfast."
"What a horrible thought!" France murmured. Pans began to clatter in the kitchen. She slipped out of the room, passing America who was on her way to the kitchen. The girl smiled cheerfully and whistled a happy tune. France returned the smile, hers coquettish, and waited until America was in the kitchen. France moved down the hallway, skirting around the wide kitchen doorway, and found what she was looking for.
The basement door.
Since England obviously did not want her down there, France just had to go see what was so important. So she gently turned the knob. The door made one of those loud, squeaky noises that seemed to make the rafters shake. France froze, but when no fire-breathing England descended upon her, France quickly tiptoed down the stairs.
The basement looked normal and had the usual basement decor. There was something that was unusual: An ornate circle that seemed to have come right out of Full Metal Alchemist (2). France walked around it, eying it curiously, before she noticed a stand with an open book on it. She picked it up and skimmed the page. She didn't quite understand it - it was in Middle English - but she figured it was some sort of spell. Playing around, she stepped onto the circle and clumsily spoke the strange words.
"Where did that damn France go?" England fumed. America, hands in her bomber jacket, shrugged unhelpfully. Then England gasped. "Oh, she better not have gone...!" She hurried to the basement door with America on her heels. As she reached the base of the stairs, she saw France look around, bewildered, as a misty green light engulfed her body. England had no time to even cry out before France was gone.
The blond pair stood together silently for a moment, staring at the place where France had stood. All that remained was that accursed book and smeared lines.
"Bloody hell."
A/N
(1) "It's mine."
(2) The French are apparently quite fond of manga, or so says this French lady I met.
Alright, so just tell me what you think. (^J^)