Disclaimer: This Fic is written by Fortune Maiden and Koder. The Idea is ours but unfortunately Hetalia isn't. Hetalia belongs to Himaruya.


The Sibling Stalking Club

Chapter 3: The Journey to France's House...


1000 hours

A Train Station in Paris, France

The four stalkers sat, two asleep, exhausted on a bench in a Parisian train station. They had just endured a long, grueling train ride, which had involved being annoyed mercilessly by the children of a family that didn't believe in personal hygiene, and Belarus and Switzerland being restrained by officers on the train for their violent retaliation to the behavior of said children. If only Norway hadn't been such a stick-in-the-mud, and bought them first class tickets too… The two conscious members of the quartet now realized, all too late, that they had no idea where the man who represented the country of l'amour lived.

It wasn't all that surprising really. None of the countries of the stalker quartet had really been involved with France. Switzerland and Romano, who shared borders with the Frenchman, avoided the self-proclaimed 'master of love' like the plague (unless money was involved for the former), and Norway and Belarus never personally dealt with him in alliances, and were too far away geographically for him to make easy contact with.

The stalker quartet was never flirted with by France either. The Belarusian and Swiss would maim him with their weapons, Norway would summon his troll and had Denmark and the Dane's axe at his disposal, and Romano had Spain to protect him. Spain may not sound all that threatening, but he had once cheerfully made a point to France that he would sharpen his axe on his bones if he so much as looked at Romano.

"You wouldn't happen to have his phone number would you?" Norway questioned, as he poked Romano in an effort to wake the southern Italian. He wasn't going to risk waking Switzerland; that man kept his gun too close.

"No," stated Belarus, annoyed. "I've never had any reason to." Norway sighed.

"Information desk maybe?" he suggested, gesturing to the nearby booth with a giant illuminated 'I' attached to the top. They both thought it was hardly likely for a country to leave their number, let alone their address at something as easily accessible as an information desk, but having no other options, Belarus nodded and marched over to the desk, her icy gaze fixed determinedly on the only man there, who was unfortunately listening to his new iPod touch.

This was very unfortunate (as anyone who knows Belarus would know) as the knife-wielding country hated not being listened to while she was talking. She proceeded to rip the device out of the poor man's hands, and stab it with one of her knives. She then threw it across the room to the opposite wall for good measure. And all while keeping a blank but visibly displeased expression on her face and her aura quite visible.

The iPod man, who had at first been annoyed with the premature death of his music listening machine, was now terrified as he gazed at the dangerous but beautiful girl before him. Belarus hoped this man spoke English, as it was highly unlikely that he spoke Belarusian, Russian or Ukrainian, and those were the only other languages she knew well enough to speak without fear of saying the wrong thing. She couldn't remember any of the French she learned for the noble courts centuries ago either. (She only did it to impress Russia of course. When he stopped speaking it, she stopped speaking it.)

"Um… Hello-" she began, but was cut off.

"I not speak English," the man stated in broken and heavily French accented speech "French only. I is sorry" The man bowed his head after speaking, as an apologetic gesture. Belarus, angry about being interrupted, didn't accept the apology, and grabbed the man's neck to choke him.

"YOU SHOULD SPEAK IT! THIS IS A FREAKIN' INFORMATION DESK!" she screamed, enraged, "TELL ME WHERE FRANCIS BONNEFOY LIVES!" The man was slowly going various shades of purple and blue from lack of air.

It was now that Norway decided to risk waking the Swiss. Switzerland could not only stop Belarus' attack on the innocent Frenchman, but could translate anything else he happened to say, being the only nation in the stalker group with French as a known and official language. (Norway could have dealt with Belarus on his own, of course, but he didn't want the Frenchman to be committed for hallucinating a troll)

As Norway before predicted, Switzerland did whip out the gun and shoot when he was woken. Fortunately for the Nordic, the Swiss aimed upwards, creating a hole in the ceiling instead of the head of a former Viking.

The Swiss was not happy about being woken up. He had wasted one of his bullets, and those cost precious money. He'd normally just pull the bullet out of whatever he had shot, and if it wasn't too mangled, he'd use it again. Fat chance of that happening when the bullet was lodged in the ceiling.

He reluctantly got up, and after assessing the situation and having it unnecessarily explained to him by Norway, - Just because he liked taking siestas, and he spoke Italian, didn't mean he was completely thick-headed like Veneziano – he walked over to the info desk, and as calmly as someone holding a gun can do, told Belarus to release the man, which she did, albeit reluctantly.

"Je suis désolé, monsieur," apologized Switzerland to the information-man, who just looked relieved he could understand what the Swiss was saying, "Elle est folle." Most countries knew little snippets of every language, such as how to say hello and goodbye, so Switzerland hoped Belarus hadn't understood what he'd said about her. She'd take it as an insult, which it was, but it was also an observation. She just scowled at him and turned away muttering swears in Russian.

"C'est ok," the man replied, his face turning a normal color once more.

Switzerland then proceeded to ask for France's telephone number and address, neither of which the man had. Defeated, Belarus and Switzerland began the short journey back to where Norway and Romano were sitting and sleeping respectively. The Slav decided to vent her frustration of the situation by repeatedly poking Romano in the stomach. This ultimately caused the southern Italian to wake up.

"Ow- bastard! Stop it!" It was then that Romano realized who he was talking to; a person with a murderous aura (currently unsheathed), and who carried many knives on her at all times. "Oh… I'm- wait. Shouldn't we be at the wine pervert's house by now?"

"We would be," Belarus began with faux sweetness, "if we knew where it was. Do you happen to know by any chance? He is your Big Brother France isn't he?"

"No, he's just Veneziano's 'big brother'" Romano scoffed, disgusted his little brother would let someone as obviously perverted as France suck away his innocence by gracing the northern Italian with his perverted Frenchy presence. "I make a point not to associate with the croissant bastard as a rule."

Belarus relaxed from her murderous ready-to-kill stance and slumped in a very un-lady-like way on the bench. Norway commented on it and was barely saved from a flying knife by an irritated Switzerland who sat between them, gun cradled, glaring daggers. Romano just "Hmm"ed. The club was going to come to an end, the four thought, before it had even started… That was until Romano of all people had a brilliant idea.

"I have the tomato bastard's number!" he exclaimed jumping up on the bench, waving his phone around, "He spends half his time at the pervert's house, so he must know the address." The rest of the stalkers were just as excited as he, they just didn't show it; showing excitement just wasn't their thing. Especially Norway, showing anything wasn't his thing.

"I'll do the talking," Belarus said coolly, snatching the phone out of Romano's hand and pressing the dial button next to Spain's name.

Ring, ring…

"You'll do no such thing!" Switzerland protested, gun out, "He'll wet his pants and hang up the minute he hears your voice!"

Ring, ring…

"Nadal beat Federer in the French open this year didn't he?" Belarus taunted, knowing how competitive Switzerland was, "Are you sure you're not just upset about that?"

Ring, ring…

"I'm not concerned about a petty tennis comp-"

Ring, ring…

"You sure seem to be-"

Ring, ring…

During the childish altercation between the Slav and the Swiss, Norway and Romano's heads had been following the flow of speech like they themselves were watching a tennis match. Norway soon had enough.

Ring, ring…

"Quiet," the ball was off the court. All heads swiveled to Norway. "I'll do the talking."

Ring, ring…

"But-" Norway sighed.

Ring, ring…

"I'll put it on speaker so you can hear." The other three nodded in agreement.

Ring-

"¡Hola! This is Spain! I don't have caller ID, so I don't know who this is…" Norway used the international request for silence, a finger over the lips.

"Spain," he began, "this is Norway."

"Ah! ¡Noruega!" that Spaniard's voice really was too cheerful, "Is there anything you need?" Norway nodded, before remembering Spain couldn't see him nod.

"Ah, ja, I was wondering if you could tell me France's address." That was Norway, ever blunt and to the point.

"I don't mean to sound rude, but why?" Oh crap. None of the stalker quartet expected Spain to question their reasons, he just wasn't the type. Even Romano was taken aback by the Spaniard's request, and he had lived with the guy for most of his life.

"Just business," replied Norway, not missing a beat, "His address?"

"Oh! Of course! Just let me find my address book!" Romano face-palmed. That was so like Spain.

"Thank-you."

"I've found it! His address is…"


After getting France's country-side address from Spain, the Stalker quartet found themselves riding out of Paris on bicycles. How did they get in this situation you ask? Well, they first attempted to rent a car, but none of them had a driver's license on them, as countries usually caught public transport, or had private chauffeurs take them places.

Next, they attempted to hire a taxi. About 20 minutes into the drive, the driver, who was a war veteran, saw Switzerland's gun, and was reminded of some memories he wished to forget.

They then found a bike shop, and Norway being rich, and not as stingy as Switzerland, bought them each a bike. They were the cheapest ones he could find, -because even he was a cheapskate sometimes- and they were all various shades of pink, except for Belarus', which was purple, with sparkly streamers attached to the handlebars. She actually seemed to like it.

Belarus had attached her GPS, another useful stalking tool - especially with the Russia-tracker she had installed- to the handlebars of her bike, and was leading her companions through the countryside, following its directions, which were, fortunately for her companions, in English.

"We're almost there!" she shouted excitedly, putting on speed, the others eagerly following her example. This had to be the first time in history that anyone besides Spain, Prussia and America? No… that's not it… The first time that anyone besides Spain, Prussia and the America look-alike had been eager to get to the French frog's house.

Belarus led them onto a winding dirt road that Romano remembered from a visit to France with Spain so many years ago. It led to a magnificent white villa with a brown roof, and red roses, one of France's symbols, climbing the walls on lattices.

The stalkers leaned their bikes up against a bush, and continued up the road, which had melted gradually into a stone path that led to the front door.

Norway, who got to the door first, clasped the brass door knocker, and knocked three times, before stepping back in line with his companions. Rapid footsteps could be heard approaching the door, and soon the door was flung open – Leaving Norway glad he'd stepped back. He would have gotten his face squashed! – To reveal an all-to-familiar person.

"Bonjour mes amis!" France exclaimed, taking each person's face – including Belarus's, much to her disgust- in his hands, and kissing both cheeks twice each in traditional French greeting. "And 'ow are you all?"

"We are fine." Switzerland answered for the group.

"Ah! How silly of me! Come in mes amis!" France ushered the quartet inside, and asked them to sit.

"Now France," began Norway "If you would kindly get your hand out of my trousers, we have a proposition for you."


I'm sorry the chapter isn't as long as Fortune Maiden's, but I thought this would be a good place to end it. I need to practice writing longer chapters…

Note: The French Info-man's speech has been written in incorrect grammar on purpose.

Spain takes a while to answer his phone doesn't he? He must have been having a siesta.

A couple of history notes (even this story has some history ^^"):

Belarus and Norway have never been allied with France but Russia and Denmark were during times when the former two were still a part of them. (And Denmark refers to himself as the oldest brother so…)

Also, the official language of the Tsarist Russian courts was French. Which means all the nobles spoke French (They also spoke English and German along with Russian) According to Himaruya, Belarus is forgetting Belarusian so she probably forgot French already too (If she ever knew it) ^^"

Translations

l'amour – love (French)

Je suis désolé, monsieur – I am sorry, mister (French)

Elle est folle – She is crazy (French)

C'est ok – It's ok (French)

Hola – Hello (Spanish)

Noruega – Norway (Spanish)

Bonjour mes amis! – Hello my friends! (French)