Hello everyone! ^^ Here comes my first Hetalia fanfic, in celebration of the new and awesome Season 5! It won't be that long, maybe around five chapters. This isn't categorised as BL, but you can look deeper if you want. ;)

Pairings now and in the future (although this isn't really a romance, more of a light-hearted comedy): GerIta, FrUK, USUK, RoChu, DenNor, Spamano, and probably some more. :D

Warning: mild swearing. I mean, it is pirate England meeting France. What do you expect? Human names are used. If you do not know these, just scroll to the bottom and I will have them written there! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, I wouldn't be writing fanfics! :) Which means I don't own Hetalia. This is a work of fiction for fans by a fan.

Edit (21/4/13): Typos and some word changes!

First Plank: Stowaway

Francis stared at the letter in front of him gravely, his azure eyes nearing tears. No, the letter in front of him didn't inform him of any sad news. Rather, the news was far from sad: his dear 'awesome' friend Gilbert Beilschmidt's younger brother Ludwig was 'awesomely' getting married in a week's time, and Francis was 'awesomely' invited to attend. All he had to do was purchase a ticket and ride the ferry over the English Channel, before getting off at the French coast, where he would make his way by carriage to Switzerland, where the 'awesome' wedding was to be held.

And here was the awesome problem – Francis had no money. None. He had left his job as a chef at the local café because he believed he wasn't being treated well, and he had spent his last coin on a very nice glass of wine without realising it. So he had absolutely no idea how he was going to make it. He no longer had enough time to find another job and earn enough to pay for the fare.

But he didn't want to miss the wedding.

And so now here he was on the seaport, the letter in his pocket and a glint in his eye, his gaze floating over the docked ships, looking for a gap, an opening and any chance he could get to sneak on board. The journey would only take a few hours, so he was confident he wouldn't be found out. He had done his research. A trading ship named L'Ange de Mer was leaving soon for France. If he could sneak into the cargo hold, there would be very few people for him to avoid.

His eyes squinted. There. All the way near the end of the port so that it was barely seen, behind a wooden sign that read L'Ange de Mer in painted letters, was a vast and utterly gorgeous ship. Francis didn't know much about ships, but being French, he knew a beauty when he saw one. The shining wood and the intricately carved mermaid at the head helped the ship give off a grandiose aura. The mermaid was looking straight ahead, a pair of delicately carved wings extending out on either side of the ship, so realistic it seemed as if she was about to peel off the wood. There were round markings on the side of the ship as well, but Francis shrugged of the nagging feeling they gave him. Looking around him, he scurried through the crowds boarding other ships and made his way to the vessel. This side of the port was completely empty – there wasn't even a soul on the ship.

Slightly anxious, the Frenchman peeked at the empty deck, making sure no-one was aboard. As casually as he could, he climbed onto the ship and looked around. Strange, where's the hatch to the cargo hold? He looked around him, eyes widening when he saw the door in the floor. He pulled it open by the ring and sniffed. It smelt musty and he was having second thoughts when he heard voices nearby.

Without wasting a moment, he slipped inside and carefully closed the hatch just as footsteps sounded against the wood of the deck. He sucked in his breath as boots walked across the hatch. They were so close, he could see the scuffed leather through the slits in the wood. He took a deep breath and a step back, but his back hit something and he turned around to see a barrel. Lots and lots of barrels. Francis sniffed again. Rum…? Is that it? This trade ship is carrying rum…? Where're the rest of the goods?

'So who took the Captain to his quarters this time?' a jolly voice asked right above him as sounds of ropes scraping and commands being yelled filled the air.

'It was Yao. He lost the game at the bar and now the poor man has to carry that drunkard all the way to his room,' another man replied, his voice soft. 'He's out for the next day, I'd suspect. That makes you in charge until he's sober, Alfred.'

'Woah, when did you get here, Mattie? Didn't even notice you. Anyway, awesome news!' the jolly voice – Alfred – chuckled loudly. 'It's about time. I've been waiting to give orders for an attack for weeks now! He hasn't been this drunk since he lost the drinking game last year!'

Attack? Francis wasn't sure he had heard right. This was a trade ship. Trade ships didn't attack.

'I still don't know how you got him to drink so much. We know how badly Captain can hold his liquor. You really shouldn't do that, Alfred. I still have no idea why he made you First Mate.'

'He was drunk back then as well, remember? Why, jealous, bruh?' Alfred sniggered, walking away. 'By the way, did you remember to remove that sign? I still can't believe how these idiots never realise we're always lying to them. I mean, would you ever see such a burly crew carry swords, pistols and cannons if they were traders?' he scoffed. 'What a bunch of stupid airheads.'

Swords? Pistols? Cannons? Francis' nearly chocked, his fingers gripping the barrel tightly. That's what those circular markings were? The cannon doors?! He massaged his temple with a hand. What have I gotten myself into…? His nerves rattling, he climbed on top of one of the barrels and pressed an eye against a crack to see if he could get any indication, a measly clue, as to who these people were. Maybe he could reveal himself and try to explain, get off the ship before –

A shudder ran through the ship and Francis blinked as the ships half-sails unfurled in all their glory, white sheets rippling in the wind. A feeling of horror settled in the pit of his stomach as the ship lurched forward, throwing him off balance.

'Half-sails ready!' A huge man came to stand into his view. He held something in his hand.

'We're still near port, Ivan, you dimwit,' a masculine voice – slightly higher pitched – hissed. 'Fly that around right now and the guards will be on our tails in seconds!' Francis licked his lips as his gaze focused on the black flag that the man – Ivan – was holding. Ivan slowly folded it and Francis cursed softly.

'Why, Yao, are you so worried for my safety?' Ivan laughed quietly but the sound sent shivers down Francis' back.

'You can take care of yourself. I'm worried about the Captain,' Yao snapped. 'He's so drunk he can barely stand.'

'Who can hic bar'ly stand, you sa-hic?'

The rowdy voice made Francis flinch and Yao gasp. 'Captain, I thought I locked your door! What are you doing out here?'

'Imma pirate,' the voice – the Captain – said dryly. 'I know how to unlock me own hic door! And why isn't the flag raised? Where's yer pride?'

'But…we were near the port, so…'

'We aren't hic near the port now! Raise it.'

'But we only raise it if we're about to attack, or did you forget, Captain?' Yao spat. 'Now go back to your room!'

'Watch your tongue,' the voice snarled.

Francis strained through the gap but he could only see Yao and Ivan from underneath; the Captain was out of his field of vision. Francis went to step away but he realised too late he was still on the barrel. His foot finding no hold, he collapsed awkwardly, and with a rather loud crash, on the floor. The squabbling voices above him stopped.

'What was that?' Alfred asked a little worriedly. 'Captain, this ship isn't haunted, right?'

'I thought I smelled a rat,' Ivan walked off the hatch and Francis scrambled behind one of the barrels, crouching down and holding his breath as the door creaked open.

'There's no one in there,' Alfred muttered after a pause. Relieved, Francis sighed before he could stop himself.

'I wouldn't be so sure.'

Before the Frenchman knew it, a big man with light blonde hair and a huge yet menacing smile had gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him out of the room, throwing him like a rag doll onto the deck. 'I would have to be dead not to smell that wonderful perfume,' the man named Ivan said with a grin.

Francis could only see that grin swimming around in his vision as he rubbed the back of his head a groaned. 'Handle me a little gently, sil vous plait,' he mumbled, blinking to get a look at who had discovered him.

At first, he only saw that man – Ivan – towering above him, cracking his knuckles. The thick coat he wore increased his size and the scarf around his neck whipped in the sea breeze. 'He walks the plank, da?'

Over his shoulder popped another man with chestnut eyes, black hair tied back and a small round face puckered in confusion. 'Who is this?'

'Outta the way, dudes,' a lean man with a mop of dirty blonde hair dared to push Ivan away. His shining blue eyes gazed down at Francis through thin spectacles, one hand on his hip and the other pointing a revolver at the Frenchman's face. 'Who are you? What're you doing on board the Britannia Angel?'

Francis hurriedly got to his feet, the barrel of Alfred's gun aimed at his nose the entire time. 'B…Britannia Angel? I…I thought this was the cargo ship L'Ange de Mer!' he spluttered.

'Oh really?' Alfred scrunched up his nose, gaze wondering over the stowaway. 'You don't look like you'll be trouble. But how'd you end up here?'

'Well,' Francis raked a hand through his hair. Should I tell them the truth? 'Well, mon ami, I needed to get to France for my friend's wedding, so I thought that a cargo ship would be a fast way of getting there.' He couldn't lie to them and say he had intended to buy a ticket. What if they asked him for money? He had none!

'So you're a fair-dodger,' a quiet voice murmured and Francis turned around to see another man, similar looking to Alfred albeit the lesser height, darker hair and stark blue eyes.

'…oui,' Francis shrugged.

'Well, you sure picked the wrong ship to sneak aboard. You're French, aren't you?' Alfred sighed, holstering his gun and looking behind Francis. 'Our Captain ain't gonna be too happy.' Francis bit his lip and turned.

Standing behind him, booted foot tapping impatiently on the wooden deck, was another man. He was dressed in a crumpled white shirt with dirtied ruffles, a long gold embroidered and scarlet coat draped over his small frame and an aged tri-cornered hat hiding his face from view. The flowing white plume attached to the material waved gently as he raised his head.

'Stowaway, huh?' he grunted and Francis got a good look at his face. It was a young face – not too young but not old either, maybe around Francis' own age – with pale pinkish skin that had turned red on the cheeks by drinking too much. Large eyes glared at him, anger evident in the emerald, though the look was slightly dulled from the alcohol he had consumed. He swaggered over to Francis, golden eyebrows raised. 'A stowaway, hic, an' a Frenchman at that?' he scoffed. 'Jus' my luck.' Francis flinched at the rowdy accent and before he could be stupid enough to retort, the man – or Captain, as he was – pulled out his gun. He was slightly shorter than Francis, placing the gun against the bottom of Francis' chin and tilting his head up. 'Gimme a good reason, hic, why I shou'n't decorate me deck with yer brains,' he hissed.

The man would've been much more intimidating without the hiccuping, but he was certainly dangerous. 'You would need to clean up afterwards,' Francis tried replying smoothly, though his voice shook a little. 'And I don't think I deserve death for what I did, non?'

'I'll show you what you deserve, bloody Frenchie,' the Captain sneered and pulled the trigger.

Bang!

Francis had closed his eyes, waiting for the end. Why did I event sneak aboard?! was what he thought would be his final regret. But after a moment, he realised that he didn't feel any different… He blinked his eyes open.

'Now, now, Captain,' Alfred had hit the Captain's arm up at the last moment, sending the bullet out into the sea. He took a deep breath, forehead beaded with sweat. 'We don't go killing people without a good reason. Where's the justice in that?' He turned to the man in the ponytail. 'Yao, why didn't you take his gun away?' he whispered.

Yao looked away. 'I forgot.'

Francis wanted to kill him.

'Alfred, lemme go!' the Captain shouted as his First Mate wrestled the gun out of his grasp. 'I'm Cap'n Arthur bloody Kirkland! You can't do this to me! Mutiny!'

'We need to figure out what to do with the stowaway,' he elbowed his Captain away. 'What's your name?' Alfred asked.

'Francis Bonnefoy.'

'Bloody French,' the Captain snarled, hand moving to grab his sword but finding it was no longer there.

'Well, Francis,' Alfred sighed, tossing his captain's sword and gun to another crew member. 'I'm guessing you don't have money to pay us for the trip, right? And you said you want to go to France?'

'Oui…yes,' Francis changed the language when he saw green eyes flash with hate.

'Well, we weren't planning to go to France straight away, but you can stick around for a few days until we finish…our job…in the Atlantic, then we can drop you off on the French coast,' he held up a finger with a grin. 'On one condition. You have to work in exchange.'

It was clear to Francis who was really in charge of this vessel. Francis nodded, grateful for the kindness of these sailors. 'I can cook,' he suggested.

'Good,' Yao pouted. 'I need another hand in the kitchen. The Captain hates anything I make for him. He prefers fish and fried potato sticks for some reason.' He stuck his tongue out in disgust. 'He has no tastebuds. I can't wait till we find a ship in the Atlantic. They should have good fish on board that we can take.'

'Huh?' Francis raised an eyebrow. 'Find a ship? To trade with, you mean,' it sounded more like a question that a statement, since Francis had an idea as to who these people really were. But he didn't want to admit it.

'What do you think we do? Trade?' Matthew, the quiet one, spoke up, voicing his thoughts. The boy pointed up at the mast above him. Francis eyes followed his finger, widening when they laid their gaze on the Jolly Roger gleefully dancing in the wind.

Alfred clapped him on the shoulder, teeth gleaming in a full grin. 'We ain't tradesmen, Francis Bonnefoy…we're pirates.'

…merde.

I hope with all my heart you enjoyed this chapter! And don't worry about England's accent, he speaks like that only when he's drunk. Please imagine it as more of a pirate/cockney mix, sorta…it's rather difficult to type it. Please, if you have the time, review to tell me how I can improve or your thoughts on the fic in general. Chapter Two won't be too far away! Thank you for your time!

If you haven't guessed it already, here are the countries and their human names:

Francis: France

Gilbert: Prussia

Ludwig: Germany

Alfred: America

Matthew: Canada

Ivan: Russia

Yao: China

Arthur/Captain: England

More countries will make their appearance in future chapters.