A/N: I'm alive! –Frankenstein walk- And, I'm sorry to say that most of my other stories will most likely not be updated. School's been rough, yo. Project after bloody project, you know?

So, it's fluff! …er… I hope. I wrote this while in a little place almost like Lunch Detention. (I'm a good kid! Honestly, I swear!) Anyways. I got an idea after thinking about one of my adorable cats. I used the extent of my knowledge of French – which is really just stuff I picked up after reading other fanfics. XD
Pretty straight-forward stuff – nothing really needing to be explained except for that I know it wasn't called Canada in the mid-1800s, but for the sake of simplicity, I chose to use Canada.

Umm… Nothing else I think… besides my love for cat's and making chibi!Canada meow multiple times. I hope you like it, and reviews inspire me to update older things. /bribes

"It's time for bed, Mon chaton."

Francis kept calling for a certain little blonde-headed boy to come out of his hiding place. It was nearing nine o' clock and every good little colony should be in bed.

A small meow came from behind the curtains in the upstairs sitting room.

"Chaton! Meow, meow!"

"I hear my little kitten, but where ever could he be?" Francis called. He heard another timid meow and stifled giggling. The tall blonde man, dressed in a fine blue suit, quietly made his way up the staircase and into the fairly large sitting room.

"Mon chaton~ Where are you?"

"Meow, meow!"

Francis saw the curtains shiver as little Canada meowed. He quietly made his way towards them and scooped up the surprised child behind them.

"Papa!" he exclaimed. The small blond child was a spitting image of Francis (with a hint of Iceland- which would explain his eyes). His curly blonde hair fell in ringlets onto his shoulders and his eyes were a magnificent shade of purple – like when the sun set over a field of lavender. He wore a light-blue nightgown with bloomers – a not so unusual sight in the mid-1800s – and wool socks.

The child was young – appearing only five years old, but was in fact almost as old as the Earth itself, just like Francis.

"You scared me Papa!" little Canada said. He squirmed in Francis' arms until he was twisted, facing him. Canada pecked his father on the nose, giving one more, soft meow before yawning. "Can we watch the lights go out before bed?" he asked between another yawn.

Francis gave a small chuckle. "Of course, Mon Cher."

The elder blonde opened up the glass door leading to the second-story balcony. He sat down in a chair, Canada curled in his lap.

The sun had fallen early, casting deep shadows in-between buildings. Street lamps and open shops cast out their contrasting light, giving the city a golden hue.

"It's really pretty. I like this place," Canada whispered, not wanting to disturb the pleasant hum of people below.

"Oui. Very pretty."

The two sat in comfortable silence and watched the stars peak down at them and the shops dim as owners closed for the night.

Francis looked down to Canada as the last shop snuffed out its candle; he was sleeping with his head pressed onto his Papa's chest.

The well-aged Parisian gently picked up his son and carried him off to bed.

"Bonne nuit, Mon chaton."