First time writing Hetalia fic. I'm nervous. So, a few things to explain, so please read this. One, yes. France is kind of OCC by fanfic community's standards because he's not a raging perv, but in the first two seasons of the show, you only see raging pervert once or twice, so... Second, I have odd headcannons. I didn't write this as a France=Papa sort of thing, but France=lifelong companion, which means, Francis is portrayed as a mentor to Matthew, rather than his father or brother. Third, I think whatever happens in the country, is portrayed in action by their personifications. My most favorite new idea was civil war and how that is represented. I hope you like it, and yes! it will be Franada.
If only. If only I had any right to claim it as mine. Nurp(=nope). Just the specific plotline and the exact order of words. Characters and ideas are owned by their respective persons.
The first time Francis had been to Canadia, it was not a pleasant trip. His attempts at colonization had ended in failure, but after a fishing post had been set up, he had unpleasantly survived the winter along with four other men.
The reason for his obsession with this part of the New World was a boy he kept seeing. Well, perhaps not boy, but a young teen, that still had the innocence of youth on his features. He wore the furs of the savages that populated the land, but looked completely separate. He had ivory skin, pure as the falling snow. While they had jet-black hair, or shaved heads (neither of which Francis was denying as attractive), this young man had blonde hair, almost identical to Francis's, save for the curl that seemed to defy gravity's wishes. The most captivating, however were his indigo-violet eyes that seemed to steal all one's secrets, albeit softly, gently, coaxingly.
During one of Francis's first scrapes with the natives, the young man attempted to make contact with them before the brutal conflicts that prevented settlement. He had spoken a rough form of Norse and tried a more fluid Gaelic, but still untranslatable to Francis. Then again, it was all he could do to keep his eyes off the lips forming the word and the pink tongue darting out. Francis hoped to have those lips and tongue someday form his language.
After that cruel winter of which only five out of sixteen men survived, Francis returned to France for the rest of the 1500's. The world there was too wild, too... too untamable. Francis loved the harsh beauty of it, the stark white snow, and the skill it took the natives to survive there. In 1608, Francis returned to Canadia, and watched the founding of Quebec City and the discovery of what is now Lake Champlain. He did not see the blonde again until 1635, when he was taking census of New France, as they called it.
The teen was sitting in a church, where they had been called to take the census. He no longer wore the furs he normally wore. Instead, he had adopted a mimicry of Francis's clothing. He was well groomed now; no knots curled in his hair, no dirt smudged his face. His indigo-violet eyes had lost some of their savage edge, the glint of the wild that had excited Francis, but now had a thin veneer of civility and control.
He was no teen now, he was a young man, and looked to be a fine one. He spoke in French, though it had an odd accent to it. A few glanced at him strangely, for they still held the aristocratic French accent. Francis, however, lovingly listened to the way the words rolled off his tongue, though short and erratic in their bursts, loved the growl that lay just beneath the surface, adored the velvet overtones that only aristocrats could master, and the sugar sweet caramel in between the growled undertones and soft overtones.
Francis watched as the census-taker asked the young man his name. When he hesitated, Francis stepped in with a airy, "Bonjour, Matthieu, c'a été des années depuis que nous nous sommes réunis. Monsieur Williams, pourquoi n'avez-vous pas dit bonjour?"
The census-taker had told him to wait for pleasantries later. The young man, now Matthieu Williams, gave his new name. Francis smiled at his intelligence, and gave a wink and a wave as a 'you're welcome' when the man glanced at him with obvious thanks. Francis walked out of the chapel, knowing the man was going to follow eventually. Matthieu did not disappoint.
Slowly, in French, Matthieu said, "We are the same?"
Francis replied, simply, "Oui, mon cher." He gave a dazzling smile.
"And just what is that?" Matthieu asked in French again. The Frenchman could barely contain his emotions. He wanted to have those lips kiss his, have that voice moan, moan his name, scream his name and plead for him in that wonderful accent.
Swallowing France replied nonchalantly, "Vous êtes la Nouvelle France. Je suis la France. Nous sommes les pays personifies." He watched as the man considered the words.
Francis's eyes widened considerably when a medium-sized polar bear wandered up, and sat near Matthieu before tugging on his pants leg. "Who're you?" Matthieu gave a snow-melting, sun-bright smile. "Mon nom est la Nouvelle France, Matthieu Williams."
Fifty years later, fur trapping was all the New French knew. All the new natives spoke Mattieu's beautiful French. The young man stuck in a standstill of growth, because nothing had changed since Francis had laid claim to this wonderful part of the New World. The thought that it was his sent a smug feeling to the pit of his stomach and joy to the wings of his airy heart. The thought that Matthieu and all his land was all Francis's sent lust.
Recently, however, upset rocked New France. Matthieu sat at his home, an odd mix of anger and sorrow and revenge and regret. Francis, for the first few days had sat with Matthieu, lovingly stroking his hair and murmuring to him in soft French. Matthieu lost weight, his eyes were no longer sharp and intelligent with the curiosity of the new, he set no more traps for beavers and small animals. Francis couldn't stand to see his beloved country like this.
The turning point between worrying and action took place on a morning where Francis was holding Matthieu in his lap, both still clinging to the soupy haze of half-consciousness. Matthieu suddenly burst up out of Francis's arms. He screamed at himself in the native's language, a guttural, stuttering language. His face contorted and he began yelling in a surprisingly fluid French. Francis, stunned, watched as he yelled a few more times, flipping between the native language and French.
Then it dawned on Francis. Civil War. The part of Matthieu that clung to the Indian tribes and their hunters was fighting the New Matthieu, the Frenchman. As soon as Matthieu, shouting in French, reached for the musket with his trapping supplies, Francis shot up.
No, Matthieu could not kill himself. Nononono! Francis grabbed Matthieu by the shoulder, pulling some hair as well (accidentally), as forcefully as he could, slapped Matthieu, regretting every second but at a loss of what to do otherwise. Matthieu blinked and Francis, eyes tearing, watched as a raised hand print was forming on his cheek. Pain for pleasure? Francis was perfectly okay with it. But to hurt Matthieu for other purposes hurt Francis as well.
Francis hugged Matthieu to him, all but collapsing in the young man's arms. Matthieu relaxed and wound his arms around Francis's hips, supporting the man. He began singing a children's folk song in French, no hint of pause and no stuttering like he wished to say a different word in his native tongue. The polar bear (Ohdammitwhatwasit'sname?) curled up at their feet and softly said to Matthieu, "Who're you?"
Oh, good, I've finally ended on a happy note. Never done that before. 'Nyways, you should be able to decipher the French, I used a translator - ashamed - , so it's probably not correct. Don't kill me for not updating my other stories, pleasepleasplease. Hope you like it. R&R, if you do I'll post moar.