((FIRST: look at the poll on my profile!))
Now: this stars Canada and France (2p versions) so enjoy
Warnings: rape, murder, insanity, dark themes, mentions of prostitution, pedophilia, no gentleness or fluff really(?), Canada and France being smart asses, google translated english words into french -therefore -not accurate, 2p nations
Songs:
Don't You Dare Forget the Sun: Get Scared
Don't Mess With Me: Temposhark (A/N: Francois' theme song throughout this story)
Lullaby for a Stormy Night: Vienna Teng
What Will I Remember: Emilie Autumn
Chapter Two: Prologue -Prt. 2
Francois was the type of person you'd figure for a serial killer; he was cynical, a loner and was notorious for hating even his own family, but whenever the police questioned his few acquaintances, all of them said the same thing: "well, sure, Franny's a little odd but he's really a good person. He couldn't've done those things". Therefore, the police never had enough evidence -circumstantial or otherwise -to prosecute the Frenchman. Francois was rough around the edges, a smoker and drinker, but he had an air of charisma about him, the way he smiled -although, his smile was only ever a small smirk -at someone instantly got them wrapped around his finger, he also had a strict honor among thieves policy. His co-workers at the strip club he worked at, Akbar and Andres, were his only friends and the only two that knew about his "hobbies"; but, he could trust them. After all, they were criminals themselves and would give Francois an alibi on a drop of the hat. Francois rarely had any worries going out, thanks to them, and was beginning to dress nicer in slacks and a violet button down shirt. He took his satchel of toys with him, always, and the whores that walked the gritty streets of Chicago* never asked why. But they always found out later. They'd always end up on the short end of his toys, the chain he brought would be tying their wrists to the bed, the cigarettes would be digging into their stomachs and thighs, the whip and police issued riot stick would be breaking the skin of their backs and stomachs and arms, they were the ones that had a plastic bag around their head as they were raped. Francois never really did know if it was the rape that did them in or the lack of oxygen to their brains, he didn't really care, though; all he knew was that they tried to scream around the panties that were shoved in their mouth as a gag -a pair from the victim that preceded them -and their expressions of horror and fear were simply delicious, making him harder and them weaker. It was a constant urge beneath his skin, the memories only helping him get by for a week or so before they began to fade and Francois got hungry for their screams and tears again. His calling card, which he supposed all serial killers had, was always a smiley face painted in their own blood above their body -always spread eagle -on the wall above the bed they were in and, taking a knife, slitting from the corner of their lips all the way up to their cheek bones, right below their eyes. The press had given him the name of "the Jovial Joker". He didn't really see how the journalists had come up with that, that was journalists for you, but he supposed it would do. It was Francois' life, though, and the Frenchman was content with it.
Just like Oliver's life, his was soon about to change.
Andres would most likely say it had something to do with "fate" or the "alignment of the solar system", but Francois insisted -and always would insist -that it was simply chance and coincidence. He had gone out again, a few days earlier than he normally would, out of boredom and lack of anything else to do. The prostitute he had chosen had the creamy, caramel skin and wavy black hair of someone of Hispanic origin and was currently laying in the cheap motel room, dead with dried tears on her cheeks and a bloody smile painted on her face, a face that would've been pretty if it weren't so heavily coated in make up. This time, as he was walking by an alley, he saw a little boy surrounded by three boys in their late teens; the little boy had long, knotted blonde hair with a curl falling in front of his eyes and striking dark violet, doe like eyes filled with fury as he pressed his back against a brick wall and glared up at the older boys. Francois stood in the entrance of the alley, watching the little boy -who was truly a cute, beautiful, little thing -interact with the gritty, dirty teenagers with their snapbacks on backwards and their jeans sagging enough to show their box clad asses with interest and mild amusement.
"Heya, there, looks like we gots us a lil' cutie here~" said the teen in the middle, who Francois assumed was the ringleader.
"I'm not cute, you hoser!" the little boy snapped narrowing his eyes.
"Come on, girlie-."
"Girlie?! I'm a boy! Are you stupid or blind?!" he growled adorably, turning his head to look at the teen on the right who had called him a girl, "Do these look like girl clothes to you?!"
Their faces bloomed in color. "No way," the middle one scoffed with a disgusting smirk, "Let's just check..." He reached down, hand reaching out to cup the front of the little blonde boy's jeans. Francois's eyebrow twitched angrily, taking a step forward -he couldn't just let a little boy be raped, he had always had an irritating soft spot for cute things and children, not that he'd ever admit that -but the little boy had already beaten him to it, it seemed, his little hands curling into fists and he hit the teen in the balls. The teen doubled over, wincing and gasping for breath.
Francois smirked and smothered his already quiet chuckle with his hand.
"Don't fucking touch me!" the little boy snarled and even Francois was surprised that such a dirty swear word came from such an innocent, pretty mouth.
"Fu...Fuckin' fag..." he breathed still clutching his groin as he sneered at the little boy -the little boy who frowned and scowled at the word 'fag' just like how Francois ground his teeth in anger at it -straightening himself into a standing position slowly, "We're gonna have tah teach yah a lesson, now, aren't we?" The teen, definitely the ring leader -Francois was sure of it now, motioned to his two companions; the two other teens, who looked so remarkably similar it was almost sad, each grabbed one of the little boy's arms, lifting him up off the ground and pinning him to the wall.
"Let me go!" the little boy yelled, his head thrashing from side to side, blonde hair whipping against his face and neck, as he kicked out his legs and tried to break free of the teens' hold. His face was now level with the ring leader's, who breathed and chuckled in his face.
"Well, you lil' fag," the teen chuckled, hands hovering in front of the blonde boy's shirt, "you gonna say 'sorry' for bein' so naughty~?" The answer the teen received was saliva and little kid mucus being spit in his face. Getting red in the face, he wiped it on the hem of his t-shirt, growling. "So this is how you're gonna play this, huh." Without warning, the teen ripped the little boy's cheap, thrift store, red t-shirt down the middle, hands reaching up to touch the boy's pure, pale skin. That, Francois could absolutely not allow.
Francois' steps were quick and nearly silent as he advanced towards the ringleader, removing the knife he had concealed in the pocket of his black pea coat and lifting his grey scarf so that it concealed the lower half of his face; he grabbed the back of the teen's white t-shirt, twisting it around his fist as he jerked the teen away from the adorable little boy whose anger masked his pure horror and fear well -but not enough. "Now, now, you disgusting swine," Francois said his his smooth French accent, his voice scratchy, though, from all the cigarettes he smoked and would probably end up being the eventual death of him, "you wouldn't want to filthy zhis gorgeous petit garçon, do you?" He didn't allow the teen to answer, shoving his knife in the teen's gut -twice -after he had spoken and allowing the male's body to fall to the dirty ground, into a puddle of...something.
"What the fuck?"
"This bitch's crazy!"
Before the two other teens could scamper away in fear, Francois grabbed the one that had called the child "girlie" and plunged his knife in the teen's neck, slicing it horizontally before spinning around to kick the other in the ribs, causing him to fall on the ground. Francois straddled his waist, plunging the already bloodied knife in his left lung before reaching in the teen's mouth, gripping the teen's tongue and slicing it off. "Zhis eez w'at you get for your silence, pazhetic fool," the older male said standing up and kicking the teen beside his friends, "You won't get any justice, zhey police will never find moi, you won't even be able to tell zhem anyzhing. Zhis eez your punishment, zhis eez ze one act of pity I will ever deliver." Francois quickly walked to the little boy, kneeling in front of him with the bloody knife still clutched loosely in his hand. "Bonjour, mon petit, parlez-vous français?" (Hello, little one, do you speak French?)
"Oui, je parle français," (yes, I do) he sniffled wiping his eyes quickly, one hand clutching the two halves of his shirt together, "Allez-vous essayer de me violer maintenant, aussi? Ou allez-vous juste de me tuer?" (Are you going to try and rape me now, too? Or are you just going to murder me?)
Francois blinked, the only thing that betrayed his surprise. "Vous ne devriez pas savoir ces choses horribles," (You shouldn't know about such horrible things) he said dryly, removing his coat and draping it over the little boy's shivering form, "Je suis François, quel est votre nom?" (I'm Francois, what's your name?)
"Matt," Matt said gulping loudly as he gripped the black coat, pulling it tighter around his body.
"Eh bien, Matt, que faites-vous ici si tard? De toute évidence c'est dangeureux." (Well, Matt, what are you doing out here so late? Obviously, it's dangerous.)
"Maman nous a sortis mon frère et moi hors de la maison pour qu'elle puisse avoir des relations sexuelles avec quelqu'un pour de l'argent...j'ai perdu mon frère et, quand je suis rentré chez moi pour voir si il était là, j'ai vu ma mère morte...Je n'avons nulle part où aller..." (My mama kicked my brother and I out of the house so she could have sex with someone for money...I lost my brother and, when I went back home to see if he was there, I saw my mama dead...I don't have anywhere to go...) Matt said quietly, a solitary tear slipping down his round cheek.
Francois sighed, something in his chest tugging and twisting -it couldn't be his heart, he thought he had cast that useless organ aside long ago -as he ran a hand through his long, messy blonde hair. " Pourquoi ne viens-tu vennez-vous pas avec moi? Je vais vous ammenez quelque part pour être nourri manger. Un endroit chaud. Ensuite nous pouvons pourrons comprendre ce qu'il faut faire à partir de là," (Why don't you come with me? I'll take you somewhere to be fed. Somewhere warm. Then we can figure out what to do from there) he suggested, not waiting for the little boy's answer as he scooped him up, Matt's face in his neck and his hands clinging tightly to his biceps.
Francois walked quickly, satchel banging against his hip and Matt shivering against his chest, taking out his cellphone and shooting Akbar a quick text of: 'you or Andres need to open the damn back door. i need to see you guys about something really fucking urgent'. It only took him ten minutes before he saw the one floor building, chipping brick exterior and blackened windows, the neon pink and green sign displaying a brightly smiling fireman, shirtless, and taking his suspenders on and off; the sign said 'Feli-atio's**: Bois and Booze~!', the somewhat failed innuendo made Francois roll his eyes as he walked passed the well lite front entrance, going to the alley where homophobic slurs were spray painted on the side -Francois took note that Matt flinched when the little boy read them to himself, closing his eyes and looking away, obviously knowing what those words meant -and knocking on the rusty, stained, green metal door.
The door swung open, revealing Akbar, a tall, albino man with obvious muscle; he had white-silver hair that went all the way passed his shoulder blades but was usually kept back in a messy ponytail -like at that moment, blood red eyes, three scars that ran horizontally over the bridge of his nose, a scar that went from the top of his left cheekbone and down on an angle to the center of his left cheek and a scar going vertical over his right eye. Akbar was rather serious, only truly able to loosen up when drunk, but he made sure that everyone at the strip club -rather they be the strippers, the bar tenders, the waiters, the cleaning staff, the managers, the patrons -was safe, his tight, black t-shirt saying "SECURITY" on the back, in white letters, his black jeans hugging his ass and well muscled thighs perfectly as his black, steel toed boots completed his ensemble. Francois had tried to get in the man's pants many, many times but was always denied with a firm, blood chilling glare; the albino was hot, it would be blasphemy not to try and sleep with him. "...Vhat's zhis...?" he asked his deep voice rumbling, only betraying a small fraction of the surprise he felt.
"I zhink you should call Andres," Francois said adjusting the little bundled up boy in his arms, he sighed, "I can 'onetly zay I 'ave no idea w'at to do in a zituation like zhis..."
Silently, Akbar nodded, stepping aside and allowing the blondes to slip passed him. "It's his break anyvays...go vait in Egil und Håkon's room, they just vent on." Francois followed Akbar's instruction, without complaining for once, and went into the Icelandic and Norwegian's room.
It was small and shaped like a shoe box with peeling pink wall paper and dark brown paneling, there were costumes hanging on an exposed pipe that lead from one side of the room to another, a red, two seater couch shaped like a pair of lips, a vanity covered with make up along with a mirror that had those bulbous lights on the frame, a mini fridge beneath the vanity table, a red chair pushed almost right beneath the costumes and a milk crate was being used as a coffee table, already holding a filled ash tray and two red solo cups of white white -one of which had a lipstick stain on it. "Let's zee if zhere eez anyzhing zhat'll fit you..." Francois mused setting Matt down on the couch as he went to the costume rack.
"I-I don't wanna dress up like a slut!"
"Non, non, of course not," he chuckled finding a shirt that was cut to expose the wearer's mid-drift but would fit Matt like any normal shirt of Matt's size, "'ere, zhis should fit."
Matt caught the shirt that was thrown to him, looking from the shirt to Francois skeptically, but tried it on hesitantly none of the less. He took of the older male's jacket, placing it on the couch, and handed his torn up shirt to Francois, who threw it into the waste jacket jammed into a corner. All of the strippers' rooms were like this, a lot of stuff crammed into the small, shoebox like room, their home away from home; for some, the club was their only REAL home.
Matt was just reaching for the new shirt, when Andres came in almost silently if it weren't for the click of his shoes on the linoleum, face muscles twitching in irritation. "Fran, you're lucky you're not bar tending tonight. I was slammed before-" Andres cut himself off, his eyes narrowing in on Matt's exposed chest and becoming more green than hazel in their perverse, predatory excitement, "...and who. Is. This~?" The little boy's eyes widened slightly, but quickly narrowed as he grabbed the shirt to shield his small, untouched chest and the hinting of ribs from Andres' gaze. "Now, why would you do that?" he asked licking lips that had either suddenly become dry or out of hunger, maybe both, as his eyes roamed over Matt's delicate frame and round face, his straight nose, his small lips, his big eyes framed by thick lashes and naturally arched eyebrows. Almost in a trance, Andres took a step forward, "You have such a beautiful body, angel, why would you want to cover it up? Why-?"
"Andres, touch 'im et I will cut off your fingers and shove zhem up your ass'ole," Francois growled drawing Matt to his side protectively, either like a lion protecting a member of his pride or a mama bear -Matt didn't know which to compare Francois too. All Matt saw when looking up at Francois was possessive protectiveness, a sort of nurturing Matt had always been looking for in his birth mother, and a sort of loyalty Matt had been searching for in his birth father before the bastard left. When he looked at Francois, he saw a home, he saw love, and he never wanted to be anywhere else.
Andres blinked, coming out of his stupor, "What-?"
"Enough," Akbar spoke walking into the room and closing the door, the room feeling immediately more claustrophobic, "Have a seat. Ve need to figure out vhat to do vizh zhis little boy -nein, Andres, you cannot take him -ja?"
"Oui."
"Whatever," Andres snapped suddenly, making Matt jump, as he ran a hand through his long, slightly curly, brown hair, "Let's just get this over with." Truthfully, the Spaniard was a bit put out that the angel before him would not be added to his collection of pretty little dolls, his impatience and grumpiness returning ten fold as he took a seat in the red chair.
Francois helped Matt put on his shirt before sitting on the red couch, picking up Matt and setting him so close that Matt was practically in his lap. "Anyways -Akbar, Andres -I found Matt 'ere in an alley about to be raped by street zhugs before I 'dealt' wizh zhem," the Frenchman said stroking Matt's unbrushed hair adoringly, " 'e zayz 'is mozher 'as been murdered et 'is brozher eez no where to be found."
"He's probably dead," Andres said bluntly and emotionlessly, Matt's eyes began to water but he bit his lip to keep it in and Francois shot the Spaniard a death glare for making the boy upset. Andres bit his tongue, guilt making his fingers itchy for upsetting the angel before him -so pure and beautiful and, Andres could tell, that underneath the celestial visage was a cunning that would bring men to their knees and to their death. He felt a burning deep in his soul now, to see his own cheerful angel-doll back home, his Flavio whose parents Andres had killed because they beat Flavio just for dressing in girl clothes sometimes. They did the same with Flavio's older brother, Feliciano, when he was young and wore dresses. As soon as he had laid his eyes on the angel -who shared the purity, beauty and underlying cunning with Matt -that now shared his home, Andres knew he couldn't allow such terrors to be inflicted on such a marvelous creature. His blade had licked the skin of Flavio's parents' necks without regret, guilt or remorse. Feliciano had gone to live with his cousins Lovino and Luciano -the latter happened to own the strip club and had opened it just for Feliciano to inherit own day -while Flavio stayed with Andres on the promise that he'd not be touched inappropriately. Thus, the making of Andres otherwise known as the Skokie Family Slayer.
Andres really wanted to see his angel-doll right then.
"Don't listen to 'im, cher," Francois said patting Matt's shoulder, " 'e doesn't know w'at 'e eez talking about."
"Here," Akbar said handing the boy an apple and a milky way bar, "I can probably find somezhing to drink if you vould like."
"Non, I'm fine, mister."
"Akbar," the albino said with a gentle, rarely seen smile.
"Merci, Mister Akbar~" Matt cooed with a fluttering of eyelashes and a beaming, toothy grin, one that made Akbar blush and smile awkwardly before straightening and leaning back against the door once more. Andres nearly snorted -sí, he is already bringing men to their knees.
"Anyways, I was wondering where I should take 'im," Francois continued as he helped Matt get the wrappings off his candy bar, "Ze police are out of ze question."
"Why don't you just take him home with you?" At the disgusted look Francois threw his way, Andres sighed in irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean it like that, stupido, I MEANT that he needs someone to raise him, sí? Y it's obvious you care, what better home for him then with the man who saved him and gives a fuck about him?"
"Oui, I would like that very much," Matt said with an excited, happy glint in his eyes as he turned and latched his small hands onto the Frenchman's left bicep, "S'il vous plaît, Papa Francois~?"
He blushed, trying to find the reasons not to take Matt in but he found none. "Ah...um..." the Frenchman said groping for an answer only to fail, admitting defeat with a sigh, "oui, I will take 'im in..." Matt cheered, clapping his hands together in excitement before throwing his arms around Francois' neck and hugging him; the older male didn't return the hug, simply huffing and turning his blushing face away. "W'atever...we need to go. Au revoir, Akbar, Andres."
"Hasta luego, amigo," the Spaniard sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and brushing aside the stray strands that had fallen out of the purple ribbon in his hair, "I need to go back to work anyways..."
"Same," Akbar said opening the door to the room and stepping out into the narrow hallway, "I don't trust Lovino to handle ze door by himself..."
"Au revoir Mister Akbar" -Matt leaned forward, Francois arms tightening around his legs and waist to keep the little boy from falling, his small fingers landing on the sides of Akbar's head, tangling in the albino's messy hair, and he kissed both of the albino's cheeks -"Mister Andres" -Matt leaned forward again, angling slightly to the left so he could place a tiny hand on the Spaniard's shoulder and kiss both of the deeply tanned cheeks -"see you soon~!" Both males blushed and gaped, standing still in shock as Francois hurried away -not wanting them to get any filthy ideas about his little boy -and Matt waved good bye from over Francois' shoulder.
"Zhat kid..."
"I know..." Andres said gulping and turning back around to walk back to his bar station, "Francois is going to have his hands full of that one one day."
"Ja," Akbar grunted following the Spaniard, "God help us all vhen zhat happens."
~oOo~
Francois' apartment was small and on what was on the South West Side of Chicago, what was considered ghetto, but the people in his complex minded their own business, which was essential. He heard a dog bark on the first level as he ascended the stairs, no door man in sight, and he was glad Matt had fallen into a deep sleep on his shoulder. A couple was fighting on level two, a baby was crying on level three, a TV was too loud on level four, the sound of a party on level five, bad rap blaring from an apartment on level six but when Francois got to his floor, the last floor, the seventh floor, it was eerily quiet except for muffled voices and TVs coming from inside the different apartments as he walked passed them. Fishing his keys from his coat pocket, he unlocked the green door and pushed it open with his hip, one hand holding Matt and the other holding a plastic shopping bag in the other. His apartment was small and cheap; his kitchen small without the latest stainless steam appliances, a gas stove instead of an electric one, grey counters, off white linoleum, black cabinets and 'burnt orange' colored walls. The living room was bigger than the kitchen but not by much, it had a medium sized TV, a black recliner with cracking leather, a stained coffee table that held books, an empty wine bottle and a full ashtray, a three seater, green-brown suede couch, beige painted walls and grey carpeting that went throughout the apartment -except in the kitchen and the single, small bathroom.
"Papa?" Matt mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his fist, "Are we there yet?"
"Oui nous sommes arrivés, mon cher," (Yes, we are, my dear) he murmured carrying Matt to his bedroom, "I'll 'ave to clean out my extra room, I'm currently using eet for storage, zo you'll 'ave to share wizh me tonight. If you don't mind."
"Non, I don't mind...my brother, Al, used to sleep in my bed all the time. He was scared of ghosts. And zombies. And spiders."
Francois chuckled, opening his bedroom door with his hip again. His bedroom had blue-grey walls, grey carpeting, a bed with a brass frame, black sheets and a duvet with the design of a French flag on the right wall, dark wood bedside tables on either side, an old dresser with brass knobs made out of dark wood on the left wall as well as the wicker door of his small closet. "Ah, eet's not much..." he said coughing awkwardly as he placed Matt on the bed, "zo I'll 'urry et try to get your room ready for you...in ze mean time" -Francois reached in the bag and handed Matt a white nightgown -"you can use zhese as pajamas...I'm going to go to ze bazhroom et change-."
"Why?" Matt asked cocking his head to the side as he jumped off the bed, "You're my Papa, non? So it's ok if we change in the same room, Al and I did it all the time!" With that, Matt took off his shirt and began to take off his denim, Bermuda shorts; Francois quickly looked away, getting his pajamas and walking quickly from the room. Matt watched him, feeling a little hurt as he took off his pants and pulled on the soft, white nightgown with puffy sleeves that went all the way to his ankles; he jumped back on the bed, his feet swinging from where they hung off the bed as he waited for Francois nervously. The Frenchman ended up returning fairly quickly, wearing navy blue sweatpants and a black wife beater, hair falling loosely around his face and just over his shoulders as he tossed his clothes in an overflowing hamper. Laundry was, obviously, not his for-tay.
"We better get you to bed," he said kneeling in front of Matt to tie the collar of Matt's nightgown shut, "Eet's been a long day."
"...oui..." the little blonde said letting himself be tucked in before Francois slid next to him, rolling on his side and facing away from Matt. "...Hey...Papa..." Matt said curling up with his knees to his chest and facing Francois' back, "You'll always be my Papa, right? Vous n'allez pas me laisser comme Mama et Al et mon autre papa fait ...pas vrai?" (You won't leave me like Mama and Al and my other Papa did...right?)
Francois felt something melt -again, it surely couldn't be his heart -and he rolled over, his usually harsh gaze soft as he looked at the adorable form of Matt, the darling -dare he quote Andres? -angel he had saved from defilement when, just an hour before he came upon Matt -he had been raping a prostitute, yes he admitted it was rape...there was no sugar coating it. "Non, I would never do zhat, cher," he said petting the side of the boy's head, "I am your Papa, now...I will protect you now et alwayz."
He smiled, happy tears hanging from his eyelashes as he snuggled into Francois' chest, enjoying the Frenchman's warmth and the fatherly arms that snuggled him. "Merci...je t'aime, Papa." (Thank you...I love you, Papa.)
"Je t'aime aussi, Matt," there was an uncomfortable feeling in his chest as he said this, but Francois quickly dismissed it with a frown as he closed his eyes. All he needed was sleep. Yeah...sleep would help.
PHEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW
Ok, so, I want to end by saying that I don't think I did Canada and France's father-son relationship justice. It's a 2p story so i'm trying to make it true to their 2p personalities but i also want to make it so that their close...but i don't really know how to do that without Canada being shy and adorable and awkward, and France being perverted and over bearing and weird and cheery and a doting father (which i always imagine him as).
*sigh*
Anyways I hope you liked it
The 3rd prologue will be up THEN the story will finally start...can I get some applause? No? Ok then...
REVIEW (?)
Characters:
Matt: 2pCanada
Francois: 2pFrance
Akbar: 2pPrussia
Andres: 2pSpain
Flavio: 2pRomano, about the same age as Matt&Allen
Luciano: 2pItaly, owner of the strip club that Akbar, Francois&Andres, the cousin to Flavio&Feliciano
Lovino: Romano, twin of Luciano
Feliciano: Italy, older brother to Flavio
Håkon: 2pNorway, stripper
Egil: 2pIceland, stripper
*I want to make it clear that I do not hate Chicago. Yes, there is a significant crime problem HOWEVER since this is a 2pFic i'm highlighting the crime and stuff more than the awesome stuff. I actually really do love Chicago, despite all it's faults, and there is no place i'd rather live (besides Canada...) so don't think badly about it. As long as you know what places to avoid then you're good.
**the name of the strip club "Feli-atio's" is a combination of Feliciano's nickname (Feli), since Luciano did buy&create the strip club FOR Feliciano, and the..."scientific" name for a blow job...i thought it was rather creative (since I made it up myself...but i dunno)
ANYWHO
Sorry this prologue had more...meat (?) to it...i just thought that Canada's and France's meeting would have more to it then England's and America's (although England did kill America&Canada's mom...)
Anyways it's almost 1:20 in the AM and i have to work in the morning LMAO (not really laughing...i'm crying guys) so i'm going to go to bed...HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS~! G'NIGHT~~~!
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GODDAMN IT!
EDIT: ok, so, I fixed the French (?) if i didn't fix it correctly just let me know and I'll do it again! And thanks to Lokinas who was the one who corrected me in the first place! Sorry if the mistakes distracted you and sorry if you had to do a lot of work on correcting my translations. I really do appreciate them, I was using Google Translate for all of them because I don't know French (or Spanish, or German, or anything other than English because I am an ignorant American... *tears poor down my cheeeeeeks*) ANYWHO, I know Google Translate isn't always correct (I amend that: it's never completely correct) But, yeah, thank you for correcting me and I hope I did the corrections correctly