Author's Note: I.. I have no excuse for this. Is this pairing even a thing?

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Promise.

Summary: A tale of 2P!Canada and his most complicated beginning infatuation with the France of the other world.

Some Say Love

It wasn't intended to occur, this infatuation.

In fact, it wasn't logical in any sense. Jackson stared hard at the man that had been caught entering the same room at the same time that the Canadian was leaving it, though his aviators prevented any sort of genuine eye contact to be made. It felt as though Cupid were mocking him; nay, that damned nudist was torturing him. And now the pair had the attention of everybody in both rooms.

Shocked silence was broken by one suspiciously slurred voice crying out, "Mistletoe! Now KISS!"

"Kesesesese, come on! You ain't no fun!" An obnoxious albino taunted loudly, his pale fingers curled around a foreign man's chest while the former leaned against the latter's spine. Jackson already hated him. "Come on, this has gotta piss you off! Say something!" whined the counterpart of his Prussia, who bumped his head between the Canadian's shoulder blades as though that would do the trick. A ridiculous thought, when an hour's worth of shenanigans failed to even warrant a grimace from the stoic-faced stranger. "Prussia, please stop bothering him," requested the witness to this interaction, seeming to struggle with finding a fitting verb that may appease his occasional friend. Matthew Williams, the 'original' representative of Canada, sighed as his plea was ignored in favor of a new tactic. Had he actually expected it to work on the retarded ex-kingdom? "Come on, Prussia. Let's find our seats before the meeting, eh? I th-"

"Gilbert!~ My, what are you doing molesting this poor, innocent bystander?" The attention of everybody was caught by a flurry of movement from down the corridor, and it seemed to sparkle more the longer it was stared at. Jackson narrowed his eyes, squinting in order to pick out features lest his mind was deceiving him. It couldn't have been..

"Do pardon my friend, mon cher! Why, he does not seem to comprehend his actions these days," chirped a distinctly French tone, and the owner was swift to disengage his 'friend' from the violated form of a certain Mountie-dressed foreigner. The albino seemed perplexed about the certain turn of events even as he was nudged over by the mousier Canadian personification. "Ooh la la, you must be new about these parks, non?" The two forgotten bystanders were quick to correct him to 'parts', even though Frenchie didn't seem to pay them even a hint of mind. He was occupied staring at Jackson, awaiting some sort of response, surely.

However, the stone-faced man simply stared through him. This was the other France? He was a joke. Bright red pants, ridiculously tall boots, blue..something. If that hair gleamed any brigher, Jackson would require a darker pair of shades. In conclusion, he looked like an absolute poof, and Jackson thought he fit in perfectly with these two other losers. "Don't touch me," snapped Jackson, noting by France's body language that he was about to try. The stunned appearance on that ditzy face made him break neutrality and frown.

"Ah, well.. I could hardly contain myself, you are such a handsome thing!" France cried, this time causing the foreigner to feel a sharp stab of shock. Was that a compliment? The France he knew from his own world wouldn't be bothered to compliment anything even if he were tortured. "And you must be Jackson, non? Oliver was kind enough to inform..."

Jackson stopped listening, blocking out the flamboyant man's annoying prating to instead inspect him once again. There was no doubt that this was him. He looked just like the smelly French bastard, except that he was smiling and actually seemed clean. The hues were also off.. This one was a platinum blond with fair flesh, while Jean was sickly pale and had nearly yellow hair.

He was no threat.

"Boy."

That voice. Jackson knew better than to twitch, knew that any sudden movement would give away how startled he had been. And he knew that the man would use it to his advantage if he caught sight of it, which continuously occurred without a single fail.

"Boy. I am speaking to you."

Internally, the Canadian man heaved a deep breath before he turned around and raised his face. Jean Alexandre Bonnefoy, the France that he had unfortunately known for as long as he could remember. Jean, the sadistic bastard that had forced him to train for days on end with no resting period between various traps set up througout the house. Jean Alexandre Delacroix, his father figure. "What do you want?" Jackson snarled, one side of his mouth twisting up in his own version of the scowl he had adopted from dear papa.

He could see the other France from where he was perched, canoodling with Oliver and Matthew. They were all smiling, and Jackson imagined that heavy gossip was exchanging lips. Although it could have possibly been compliments instead, from the way that Oliver was quickly becoming pink every time that Frenchie opened his mouth. And the way that the mousy Canadian guy leaned into what must have been his father figure, and the way that Frenchie was the one who instigated it. Jackson just felt more ire fill his veins, because here he was with Jean while they were off having some sort of love fest over there.

Incestuous bastards.

"What is your hotel room number?"

And then he was staring into bright blue eyes, because France, obviously the other France, was looking at him and widening his lips to display what must have been pridefully whitened teeth. No, that was impossible. There was no possible way Frenchie could possibly know where Jackson was looking, not when he had an obvious speaking companion in front of him and dark aviators on his face.

"Stop eye-humping your counterpart and answer the question, Boy."

The little blond poof winked at him. Jackson had never felt more violated. He took it out on Jean once the French cheese-monkey tried to flip the conference table onto him, starting yet another duel between darling father and son.

"Are you alright? I did notice that Jean managed to strike your face while you were still recovering from the chair to the spine." Jackson swerved around just in time to spot Frenchie stepping into the hotel room he had rented for the weekend. "Who gave you my room key?" he demanded, growling as he thought of that ugly French whore of a father figure willingly giving up the access to their room. Dirty fleabag couldn't even be arsed enough to get his own, he had assaulted Jackson for his room key which led the injured Canadian to break into his own hotel room.

"My fingers~," cooed the elder man, causing Jackson to wince at the seductive purr, "certainly know their way about~. Though I daresay he is a slippery one." The Frenchman invited himself to drag a roomchair over and settle himself upon it, his graceful habits continuing to lead Jackson into a different nickname. Princess, that was just perfect.

"That's fucking disgusting."

"Well, he does somewhat resemble me, so it could not be too revolting of a thought. Do you think I am handsome?" Princess' eyes squinted with his grin.

"No."

It was as though a pile of bricks had crushed the Eiffel Tower, and Jackson felt a dark happiness fill him as the other's face morphed into an expression of horror. "'No'? What are you saying, 'no'? I am beautiful, the most attractive nation this world has to offer! I refuse to be as horribly disfigured as the rest of them in anybody's mind, and that includes yours!" he sobbed, having shot up from the seat just to begin pacing. Jackson sighed, wondering precisely how he had gotten caught alone in a room with the most conceited personification in the entire world. On a brighter note, the Canadian's pain pills were nothing compared to the Frenchman's voice when it came to putting him to sleep.

"Would you like a drink, cheri?"

Jackson frowned. It was him again. The creepy French princess that had broken into his bedroom twice and sent him countless love notes for the past few months. He had heard that it was a common occurrence amongst the rest of the blond's abundance of crushes, though that didn't make him feel any less awkward about the situation. The Canadian had left his shades off today, so he stared at Frenchie eye-to-eye for the first time since they'd met. "Why? So you can roofie me?"

The princess made a face, acting as though it were the most crude joke ever told. "I fear that I do not know how to mix that one. However, I would be glad to give you a strong glass of wine? Ah!" he cried with great acclamation. "What a lovely thing that fate is! I happen to have two in my hands now!" Jackson glowered quite visibly as the man sat down beside him, but one look at the plastic cup of pop Oliver had left him with and he was snatching the wine right out of Frenchie's hand. He figured that he needed it much more than anybody else at the 'party', which was truly everybody taking advantage over mousy Canada and his house. Jackson had an idea that it was the obnoxious other American who sent out the invitations.

"Is it nice? I happened to have brought that one myself," the princess bragged, one hand creeping rather suspiciously towards his own. It was just out of the corner of his eye, but he noticed.

"What's going on between you and Mousie over there?" Jackson demanded, moving his hand to his own lap for a successful escape. "What, are you two in some sort of special bonding thing? He seems like the type to have a daddy-kink." He didn't know what was wrong with him, but it was something about their relationship that just bothered him. Whereas he and Jean would go at it like WWIII, the princess and the mouse would curl up in the same chair with a tickle fight. Jackson didn't quite comprehend any sort of envy beyond the desire for material, he hardly realised how irrational his exaggerations were.

Frenchie cocked his head to the side, eyebrows raising high even as a sheepish smile took over his features. "Ah, pardon?" he inquired, blue eyes searching the area where he had noticed Jackson gesture towards. A daddy-kink.. But America was far from mousie, and Seychelles was not eligible for the pronouns. Perhaps his sweet Monaco, though the last time he had seen her she was in the kitchen gambling Kirkland bankrupt.. "Are you referring to Matthieu?" he ultimately gasped, and Jackson sarcastically threw his hands up in celebration. "Hip-hip-hurr-fucking-ray. Maybe you're not completely a brain-dead princess with another pretty face."

They sat in silence.

"... So, you do think that I am attractive~? Ohonhonhonhon!"

He didn't remember how he had gotten in this position. It had all been some sort of blur, the sharp comments shot down by witty remarks to inflate a certain princess' ego. And all the time they were drinking more of the wine, and somebody was passing small drink shots around. Eventually, time seemed to hold still at one point when he was kissing the Frenchman. Jackson wanted to throw the other over the coffee table, but he smelt like cologne and wine and clean laundry and his lips were too sinful to release. The Canadian had hardly realised that he was staring directly into Jean's eyes while he kissed his father figure's counterpart.

Then they were in Matthieu's bedroom, grappling on his bed, and no clothes were shed even as the princess laid on top of him and their lips met in a repeated clash. However, Jackson's hands were on the Frenchie's ass, and he couldn't figure out how to get them off. The man on top of him was stroking his face, his neck, lips dancing over these spots that had never been touched by anybody before, and if he used that tongue one more time to stimulate his flesh, Jackson wouldn't be very kind with his commands.

Jackson had not been the one to stop first. It was the princess, who emerged from between the Canadian's legs with warmth still flooding his mouth. And when he left the room with his perfect hair askew, beautiful clothes rumpled, and a single rose in his wake, Jackson felt like a child. A child playing in an adult's game.
A child with his pants around his ankles without being fully satisfied.

Jean had thrown a book about puberty at his head during breakfast one day. Haha, how adorable. If only he was a hundred years old again.

With his parent figures essentially useless, Jackson had to ponder his issues on his own. He read about it, found some interesting articles online, ordered some books about it at one of the libraries in Montreal. His main issue was that these were typically self-help items, and even more centered towards teenagers or young adults. The Canadian was over two hundred years old.

Most called it lust. Others called it infatuation. Even love had been suggested. One or two had referred to it as obsession, though all had agreed on some sort of desire.

And yet, Jackson didn't keen for the other, nor cry over his inner turmoil, and nor did he particularly care about appearing/acting nice to woo the little French croissant. If anything, he would be content for them to just kiss and coexist. Was that so hard for somebody to write a fucking book about?

There wasn't enough time in the world to come up with epiphanies anyway, movies and books were all so full of shit. Predictably, he hadn't the time to come up with a conclusion, not when this Christmas party appeared. Just another reason for everybody to hook up with one another, get drunk, make complete asses out of themselves. And Jackson was caught under the mistletoe with a toad.

Nothing made sense. He didn't know the other long enough to let it be love.
He didn't care enough for lust.
He doubted that it was obsession, he wasn't hanging around shrines of the other man like Oliver did with Jean.
But maybe it was some sort of desire.

"Ohonhon~ It appears that we are caught, mon petit chou! Do give our fans what they want?"

Jackson grabbed the collar of France's shirt and dragged him in for kiss, a kiss that gained a stunned round of applause along with shouts of encouragement for the unlikely pair.

"Whoo, go Francis! GET SOME!"

"Come on, lumberjack, don't let him win ya! You fuck that mouth up! Ow, what the fuck, Mattie?!"

As they pulled back from each other, Jackson looked into those expressive blue eyes with his own cold ones. "... So, your name's Francis? Too bad. Get coffee with me tomorrow, princess."

Why can't it just be called content?

-Fin-

Author's Note: I would not take this too seriously if I were you, I just-
bfeaijdscmkx mvngnfjedksmcvnfjskdc. Thank you for reading. ovo.

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