A/N: Hello, person!

Well, I've finally grown a pair (of ovaries) and chose to publish a fic. Although I'm still fairly anxious. But, if you care, the story behind this story is that, while struggling with a different story idea, I started writing this instead. I liked this better—hence what you're about to read.

I have some faith in my writing abilities, but please, if it happens, feel free to tell me how your heart cried and your eyes bled. I will issue an apology and maybe an internet cookie.

I have other notes/thoughts, but I'll save that for after the chapter. I'm supposing you find me tedious already.

I guess I need a disclaimer, so...I don't own Hetalia. Yeah. That's the truth.

Warnings: Genderbending (because I felt like it). Mentions of abuse, alcoholism, parental death. People running away from home. Expletives.

Er, I think that's all for now. If any of that bothers you, well, no one's forcing you to read. Anyway, here you go.

Chapter 1

She hated him. She really did. She really, really hated him, in case she wasn't clear enough. But apparently, she didn't hate him enough, because what was she doing?

She was planning on running away with the bugger.

But no one should get her wrong. Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt thou the sun doth move, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt that Alice Kirkland hated the likes of Francis Bonnefois.

Truly and honestly, she hated everything he stood for. He was a womanizer who refused to stick to a woman for longer than a month; who picked and chose girls as if he were a rich kid in a candy shop with a fat allowance and an insatiable sweet-tooth; who didn't care about the poor, bleeding hearts he left trailing behind him. He was a troublemaker who always just barely scraped by throughout his high school years despite being (surprisingly) smart; who never gave a damn to regulations, rules, or expectations; who gave the finger to conformity and practicality, as long as he was having fun. He was a snobbish prick who thought he deserved everyone who was anyone's love; who loved gazing longingly at his own reflection; who was handsome, charming, smooth, and fully aware of all of it. Also, he was French. So very, very French.

Every last thing that idiotic, pretentious, bastard frog stood for disgusted her.

Though that disgust evidently wasn't stopping her.

It almost made her wonder: did she really hate him that much?

To which she would mentally slap herself for asking such a ridiculous question and immediately answer: yes.

Thinking about that boy made her skin crawl. Imagining sitting in a car with him for hours on end made her feel sick. Trying to wrap her head around the idea of dealing with him sent shivers down her spine.

But here she was, quietly packing her bags without her father or her younger stepbrother or anyone else's knowledge. Getting ready to skip town with a boy she utterly hated. Loathed. Despised. Detested.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

…She might have an answer. Sadly.

Escape was just...vital for her. Really. Alice was suffocating here, and the longer she stayed, the closer and closer death by asphyxiation came.

Though it didn't feel fair that she was dying because fate screwed her over. It wasn't her fault her stepmum left just last summer. It wasn't her fault her stepbrother decided to become a juvenile delinquent, complete with dropping out of school to run away (Well, didn't that sound familiar?) to live a life of vandalism and underage drinking with his so-called friends. It wasn't her fault her father apparently wanted to become the role model for all those aspiring to be wasting, stupid, senseless, careless, abusive, alcoholic failures.

Alice was almost tempted to roll up her shirt and pant sleeves to see her arms and legs splotched with ugly, discolored greens, blues, purples, and yellows. Fortunately, her better judgment (which had been failing her lately) prevented her. She didn't need to see them to remember that they were there or where she had gotten them. And anyway, they looked like a three-year-old's rudimentary finger paintings. Hardly something one hung up in a gallery for all to gaze upon.

Note to self: pack plenty of long-sleeve shirts and pants. Her rival wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing her as this…weak. Never.

Yet even though she hated him, Alice really had to admit—if it weren't for the rich bastard, she'd never get out of this place. Yes, she could be seen as using the boy. But that was probably because she was. He had the fast car and the money needed to take her away from this awful, stifling home. Although if she really wanted to, she could call it a deal of sorts. He gave her the means to run away; she gave him the 'supervision' his father apparently wanted. At least that made her feel like less of a leech.

Alice looked back at her packing. She honestly wasn't sure what one was supposed to take when they ran away from home. She knew she had to pack light, with mostly essentials. So what did that mean? A few sets of clothing, probably. Money—or at least what she still had from her part-time job that her father didn't steal for booze. Toothbrush, floss, comb, er…feminine products. Shoes, socks. As many books as she could take. Cell phone. MP3 player with headphones and charger. (She wouldn't be able to stand listening to the frog's French accent all the time.) That didn't seem like much. Surely she was forgetting something?

The girl scanned her room. Everything she hadn't taken was still in its place. All neatly put away. There had to be something she was forgetting among all of this stuff. Out of all her possessions, there had to be something with sentimental value. Just a little.

It felt strange to Alice to be wishing for something seemingly material yet immeasurably valuable to her. But…she didn't have to be emotional. In fact, being emotionally detached meant she didn't get hurt—and though Hollywood or whoever else might like to object, it was true and it worked. Still…might as well take something.

Her gaze swept over the entirety of her room a few times before it settled on a little brown box sitting on the end of her bookshelf. Strange. Alice didn't think she had seen it before.

She walked over and grabbed the unfamiliar object. It fit just perfectly in her hand. Turning it over a few times, Alice saw that this dull brown box was far from ornate. In fact, there were no carvings or paintings, but plenty of little dents and bumps. For the most part, though, besides the irregularities, it was smooth to the touch with no splinters. Alice weighed it in her hand. The box wasn't particularly heavy for its size. Finally, she looked for a latch.

With a small click, the box's lid was unlocked, and Alice raised it up to see a bare, shallow compartment and a slightly dusty mirror. She blew away the particles resting on the surface and then clearly saw her own face.

Naturally, she smirked and saw her reflection do the same. Well, didn't she look lovely? Look at those messy blonde pigtails with flyaway hairs everywhere. Those green eyes that had the same (lack of) energy and shine as her soul, framed by unattractive black glasses. Those few almost faded bruises that she didn't need to cover up anymore. Those annoyingly thick eyebrows that were at least not even close to the hairy caterpillars a certain frog insisted they resembled. And as for that smug smirk? It had quickly transformed into her trademark scowl.

Alice slammed down the lid and dropped the box back on the shelf. She never did love how she looked. But at least she wasn't a narcissistic bastard, unlike some people she had the misfortune to know.

…That had been fairly childish. She shouldn't treat a poor inanimate object so badly, just because she had low self-esteem.

Hold on. She had just been treating a lifeless box as if it had feelings. God, she was pathetic. But…all the same…one never knew how invaluable a box could be. Somehow. Eventually.

She didn't have to justify her decisions! Especially not when she was already intent on driving away with the boy she hated. Forget college. Forget that she was only eighteen and hadn't been out of high school for very long. After all, higher education and a better life in the end? She scoffed at that.

Ugh. Never mind. She had to finish packing.

Ah, running away from home with the girl he hated with a vengeful passion. It would almost be romantic in his eyes, if his mind were as twisted as the idea actually was.

Francis Bonnefois was a hopeless romantic, yet even he couldn't imagine suffering that stuck-up English bitch called Alice Kirkland. So why was he going to?

He was pretty sure it had been a lapse in judgment (or an excess of alcohol), letting the information slip in front of her. But of course, once it got out, the little parasite latched onto the opportunity to get away and refused to let go. One would figure that their mutual hate would deter both of them. It didn't.

He sighed. All he had wanted to do was make a quiet escape from this tiresome town with his new car and debit card. (Yes, not as impressive as a few credit cards, but that was ignoring the fact it was loaded with ten, twenty-some grand.)

His father was surprisingly trusting of him, despite all his detentions in high school and even a couple nights in jail. Though to be honest, his father probably suspected this was coming all along. Francis was never a good student in any of his high school years. He was better known as the lady-killer and the guy who got in trouble with his friends a lot. The second title wasn't quite as catchy, admittedly. But that was who he was. Francis was not the workaholic businessman like his now multi-millionaire father. Nor was he the scientist or the scholar or whatever. He was too free-willed for any of that. Luckily, his father seemed to understand.

So they both looked the other way as his father clearly prepared to let Francis do what he had always wanted to: roam.

There was a catch, however. Of course there would be a catch. His father had specifically stated that should Francis decide to traipse the world, he'd need some sort of 'responsible supervisor', or else he'd revoke his financial support. He had been stuck for a while, searching for someone potentially acceptable, when Kirkland waltzed into the picture.

Sure, she was the poster child of responsibility, but also of sticks-in-the-mud. Plus, they hated each other. Frankly, Francis still wasn't very sure what had made the two of them agree, but he figured it was, indeed, probably alcohol.

But in the end, he could care less. After all, Francis could simply not imagine a more wonderful lifestyle than traveling everywhere. Never having to stay in a single place. Never having to commit himself to anything. Always being free to move on to the next place.

And the adventure. Who knew what people he'd meet? What faces he'd see? Well, hopefully many female ones. But besides that, who knew what places he'd find? What situations he'd get into? What kind of person he could become? Hell, he didn't even have to be the same person from place to place. He could invent himself time and time again—be literally anything he imagined—and no one would be the wiser about who he really was.

He'd start here in America. Although truthfully, he was hoping he'd one day get to visit other lands—particularly Europe and his home country of France. Maybe he'd finally get to see the actual grave of his mother…Well. One day. The memory of the news of her death was too fresh.

She had not deserved such a fate, though. And the fact that his father refused to pay the fee to ship her body back from France for a burial here…maybe he should not think about that. Not now.

A-Anyway, what was more important was that he was going to leave behind this dull place with nothing for him. Of course, he was leaving with his detested enemy, but hopefully she'd be of little to no bother.

…Actually, that outlook was probably more than optimistic. No matter. He'd probably be able to ditch the girl at some point if she became too much of a nuisance.

Ah, anyway, he had to plan, at least a little. Francis had already packed his bags with essentials. Cash, card, keys, various outfits, this and that—he had all he needed to live a life on the road, plus the means to get more. For example, his devilishly good looks. And he meant it. His looks definitely could tempt the devil himself. (Though why he'd need or want to is irrelevant.)

After all, just look at his luscious, wavy, blond locks, especially the way they caught light and shone. In fact, he did. He now was standing in front of his full-length mirror, once again admiring his numerous good features. Such as his charming, clear blue eyes that glistened with liveliness and a little something suggestive. Or perhaps his flawless skin upon which a dark circle, wrinkle, or pimple had never appeared. Or his gorgeous body and fabulous sense of style. And how could he forget his attractive bit of stubble on his chin that drew girls—and sometimes guys—like a hairy magnet? (That…was not an especially good analogy.) Well, no matter! If all else failed, a brief wink and a flash of his stunning smile were foolproof, instantly driving all into his arms.

Except for a certain English girl. But why would he want to charm that thickly eyebrowed, conceited snob? He didn't need her. Especially not when he had so many other options. And it was always so lovely holding someone in his arms or being held. It was warm and full of love.

With that wonderful thought in mind, Francis did a small twirl like the model he was at heart and blew himself a kiss. Well, that was quite fun. But, alas, he had something to do.

Francis sat down to gaze at the map on his desk. Basically, all he needed to do was find a general path through the US.

After some blank staring, the French boy looked around his room. Maybe he could grab a marker, draw some lines on the map, and follow those? Or not.

Francis gazed at the large map of America unfolded before him. It had thin lines drawn all over it, supposedly representing roads and borders. But to him, it was like trying to derive messages from ink after it has been spilled everywhere. These were just little lines to him, ones that looked like spindly spider legs or forking tree branches. They spread themselves across the map, like long, thin fingers reaching far and wide. But he had no idea which lines were best to follow, or which would take him someplace worthwhile. Really, they were just lines to him. Maybe it would have been best not to save this important planning for mere hours before departing.

No, wait. Planning meant he wouldn't ever be able to truly roam. He would be anticipating his next step; the next place life took him. No, no. He should let himself wander, let himself go freely wherever he felt like going solely because he felt like it. That was what roaming meant, right? Traveling freely with no premeditated actions. Yes, of course. Forgetting about any expected path was the only way to live. Francis immediately picked up his map, balled it up, and threw it upon the floor. There was now no use for it, after all.

...On second thought, he might need it in case he got lost.

A/N: Oh Francis. Excusing your laziness by giving it a moral, or something.

And Alice. Why you so self-deprecatory? And that box? That...hopefully will mean something in the end.

Let's list the rest of this stuff. Because.

1) About the genderbending: I just felt like writing fem!England. That's mostly why.

2) The title: It actually comes from an inside joke between a friend and me. I just remembered it and thought, "Perfect." Though it's probably not. Maybe I'll change it later.

3) Plot. I'm not sure what plot there shall be. There will probably be some drama/angst. I'm thinking there will be lots of mini-storylines with other Hetalia characters as we go from town to town. Not sure if I'm going to genderbend some of them or not. In between those storylines will probably be France and fem!England arguing in the car and at hotels and whatever. For all I know, this may turn out to be an ongoing fic. I'm not sure.

4) The main reason why I'm writing this story in America instead of in Europe or something is because it's supposed a road-trip. However, it's got to be more difficult to road-trip from country to country than it is to road-trip from random, probably made-up city to other random, probably made-up city. Plus, I can put different Hetalia countries in the same town. And I can include ASEANS, which you just can't do in Europe.

5) I doubt I'll be able to write France well. I really do.

6) This is my first published fanfiction, so I would very much appreciate constructive criticism, corrections, suggestions, thoughts, etc. Suggestions especially, because plot-wise, I'm pretty vague. Please and thank'ya.

7) I talk so much…but anyway, I'm working on more. I'm not sure how soon it'll get done. I'm a terrible procrastinator, even in summer.

Well, anyway, good day to you, sir/madam/person/thing. Thanks for reading!