[Fanfic]--Hope's Second Cousin, 1/2 FrancexCanada

[sakuratsukikage.livejournal.com]

Title: Hope's Second Cousin
Author: sakuratsukikage 
Characters/Pairings: France, Canada, Kumajirou, mentions of England and America; France/Canada
Rating: PG or so.
Warnings: Boy-kisses (eventually.  maybe).  Also, France.  A lot of longing.  And a lot of angst.
Summary: It can't mean anything, really.  France is a flirt.  France already gave him up once, to England.

Written for hetalia_kink .  I didn't finish this on the kink meme, because I realized that it was going to take me a ridiculously long time to finish it.  But anyway, here I am, de-anoning.

Hope's Second Cousin, Part One

Canada had thought he’d known the rules of the whole thing.  Had thought they were simple, really, easily laid out in a simple diagram, with arrows and everything.  He’d thought he’d known exactly how his relationship with France was supposed to work.

They’d always been a bit flirty, because . . . because that was how France was.  It didn’t really mean anything; he flirted with everyone, practically everything, that had a pulse.  Canada was pretty sure he’d even gotten flirty with Kumajirou once or twice.  France couldn’t help it—it was just a reflex, the way he expressed affection.  Canada knew it didn’t mean anything, because he’d seen France when he was really, really into someone and it just—it didn’t even compare.

But that was fine.  That was one of the rules Canada had thought were pretty clear.  France thought of Canada as sort of a . . . best friend and younger brother all rolled into one, someone comfortable, who he’d never have to worry about demanding anything of him.  He was affectionate toward Canada, France just was affectionate, and it didn't mean anything.  For his part, Canada cared about France, and was grateful that France was the one nation who never forgot him, even when they were sort of fighting with each other, and admired him just a little, and that was all.

At least, that was the lie Canada used to hold up his own side of the game, to remind himself to play by the rules.  It was sometimes even a lie he told himself, to make things easier when France started flirting with . . . whomever he was romancing at the moment.

But Canada wasn’t very good at lying to himself.  And what it came down to was that when his attention wandered in meetings, it focused on the honey-shaded waves streaked with sun-touched glints in France’s hair and the way they brushed his face or curled against his neck, or the lean lines of France’s shoulders and the way they moved as he talked and gestured and shrugged, or the soft golden sheen of stubble across his chin, or he categorized in his head the myriad smiles France had for people, because France smiled frequently, and each of them meant something different, if you were paying attention.  Canada didn’t know when, exactly, France looking his way had started his heart pounding in his chest and sent hot and cold ripples through his body, when France smiling at him had made him feel lightheaded and warm, when France so much as touching his shoulder had started making his cheeks burn.  Sometime not too long after Canada had begun to come to the meetings, invited by England, because he’d never thought about France that way before the first time he’d arrived at one of them, a shy adolescent in a new suit and knee breeches that seemed to fit all too tightly, torn awkwardly between England and America who could still barely exchange civilities, and France had looked up and recognized him before he’d even said a word.  It had been a gradual process, sneaking up on him, almost, until Canada finally realized that the way he felt when France touched him was completely different from the way he felt when anyone else did, and the way he couldn’t stop watching France when he didn’t think he was looking was . . . well, was pretty not normal.

But it didn’t matter; he’d thought that even then, because France didn’t really want him, because France had given him up, hadn’t he?  To England, when he was just a child.  So it was hopeless.  He’d started out knowing that. 

After all, it made sense.  He’d never really held anyone’s attention.  Even after England had taken him from France, he’d never paid Canada as much attention as he did America.  England had always been attentive and present in his life, of course, just . . . distant, distracted.  France had been almost lavish in his attention, when Canada was little, and Canada had missed it, missed him, so deeply he could still remember the hurt of losing that.  But France had left, traded him away, and he hadn’t even seemed to miss Canada much, absorbed in his own affairs in Europe.  He’d come back and helped America fight against England, but he’d never come back for Canada.  Well, by then Canada had been getting used to it, anyway.

And none of that stopped Canada, stupid as it was, stopped the way his heart sped up when France came into a room or seemed to stutter in his chest when France looked at him, stopped the way he was always aware of France’s presence like a hum in the back of his head, even when he tried to ignore him . . . any of it.  It was stupid and he knew it, but Canada’s heart didn’t seem to want to listen to any of his own arguments.  He was infatuated, and he didn’t know how it had happened, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it.

The realization had been just in time to make the whole thing with Quebec hurt worse, because it had felt like France was trying to take back whatever of himself had become part of Canada, and if France didn’t want Canada to have anything of his, that . . . that sort of showed where their relationship was going, what France really thought of him, huh?

But they’d worked it out, the two of them, and France had been so careful, since, even more attentive than before, to acknowledge Canada.  They’d spoken French together, some, so that Canada could get the practice.  And Canada had managed to convince himself—it hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it, a determined regimen of lies and doses of harsh reality in alternating applications—that that was enough, that that had to be enough.  He and France were close.  So what if they weren’t as close as Canada wanted?  That’d never happen, anyway.  What they had was already a lot more than Canada had managed with anyone else.

When Canada’s hopeless, pathetic infatuation had been all it was, it hadn’t mattered, so much, that France had left him once, forgotten about him once, because as scared and alone and abandoned as he’d felt then, he loved England and America, loved being part of their weird functional-dysfunctional family, and he was really glad he’d gotten a chance to grow up with his (loud, obnoxious, annoying) brother, because he loved him, despite all of it.  And he knew he probably wouldn’t have had that, otherwise, wouldn’t have gotten to know England better, wouldn’t be as close with him as he was now. 

He’d always wondered, though, just a little, if the way everyone forgot him had started off with France forgetting him, because if France could, France, who’d loved him and doted on him and—and, then why not everyone else?  But in the end Canada supposed he just wasn’t very memorable.

But that had all been before France had started really flirting with him.

At first Canada had thought he was just imagining it, that he was just so desperate that he was making simple affectionate gestures into signals of sublimated lust in his head because he was projecting, or something, and the thought of that made him feel really pathetic, made him curl up miserably in his bed in shame, some nights, shame that France’s caring wasn’t enough for him, that he was low enough and weak enough to be forcing his own fantasies onto France in real life, or something.  Which didn’t make any sense, and he knew it, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

But . . . there were some things that just couldn’t be interpreted as anything but flirting.  And France had never actually, actively flirted with him before, so all of it was new.  New and strange and completely overwhelming, the way France had taken to sitting next to him, giving him long, knowing, teasing looks during the meetings that made Canada blush and be glad that no one noticed him so they wouldn’t see, brushing Canada’s thigh and shoulder and side with France’s own body whenever France so much as stood up, or reached over to pick something up, or leaned back, or anything, giving Canada deep breaths of his cologne, something deep and rich and heady and alluring that somehow just smelled like France.  France had started calling Canada different pet names than he’d used to—my heart, my angel, my darling, rather than my little one, my pastry, my dear.  He’d started resting his fingers along Canada’s elbow, his back, brushing his hair back out of his face whenever it fell forward into his glasses, as it so often did.  His attention, the way France looked at him, even felt warmer, and Canada wasn’t sure how to deal with that, with France’s eyes on him so much of the time, warm and coaxing and—and desiring—and—

And he had not just thought that.  Because it was ridiculous.  Completely, totally ridiculous.  Canada bit his lip as he looked into his mirror.  He’d just taken a shower and he wasn’t wearing his glasses, his hair still clinging wet to his neck, plastered down over the top of his shoulders and starting to dry in uneven little wisps.  His one long curl still looped high over his head, undaunted by the moisture.

He couldn’t figure out what France would see in him, what had encouraged him to suddenly start flirting.  Canada hadn’t had a sudden growth spurt or started dressing better, or anything like that.  He looked just the same as he always had.  Sure, he was kind of good-looking, he supposed, but he didn’t have anything his brother didn’t, except longer hair that hung down in his eyes and made him kind of look like a dork.  And also more like a girl.  Canada usually liked his hair—he’d have refused instantly to cut it had anyone tried to pressure him into it—but at that moment he was hard-pressed to find anything really good about himself.  His eyes were nice, he supposed, big and deep and blue swirled and tinged with enough purple to be really kind of pretty, but they’d be covered by his glasses most of the time, anyway.  He was smaller and slenderer than America, not by a whole lot, but with less muscle and raw, overt strength.  He poked himself in the stomach, frowning at the muscle there.  He definitely wasn’t out of shape, or anything, but compared to America—

He was being dumb.  Really, really unforgivably stupid.  He already knew he wasn’t as attractive as most nations; if he were all that great-looking he’d have attracted more attention, right?  But he wasn’t ugly, or anything.  He had a nice sort of face.  That looked a lot like his brother’s.  Maybe France had just slept with everybody else too many times for it to be interesting anymore, and Canada was his last resort.

It was weird, though, that France would cross the unwritten line that had been a part of their relationship for so long.  Ever since they’d started actually seeing each other again once in a while after Canada had grown up, France had been more distant than he’d been with Canada as a child; there’d been that careful line between them of friendly affection and no more.  Canada couldn’t quite figure out why France would have tossed all that out the window, and it scared him.

He scowled at his own face, cheeks flushed pink in the steamy mirror.  Okay, so it was also kind of nice.  Embarrassing.  Exciting.  He didn’t even know what to think anymore, how to feel, it was all jumbled up inside him, confusing and trembling and strange.  He’d never thought he’d actually have to figure out how to deal with France actually showing interest, never even dreamed it except in his absolute craziest daydreams and fantasies.

He picked up a new pair of blue jeans off his floor and slipped them on.  He resisted the urge to turn around and see how they fit in the mirror; he already knew they were kind of tight, and that was embarrassing enough.   There were no formal meetings for today; they were starting up again tomorrow, so Canada had, against his better judgment, taken France up on his offer to be shown around Paris.  He didn’t need a guide, one part of him said, stubbornly.  He had been to Paris before.  He spoke French, perfectly fluently, even if he did have that slight accent France kept teasing him about.

The rest of him was so pleased and flattered and excited it was humiliating.  Canada scowled at his face in the hotel mirror, said, out loud, “You’re a moron, Matt,” and wrung water out of his hair so it dripped into the sink before starting to towel it dry.  It could air dry while he looked for a shirt.  There was still some time until he was supposed to meet France.

He really wasn’t expecting France to notice the jeans, or that he’d sort of put effort into looking nice—his button-down shirt was blue and matched his eyes—he’d never been able to attract that kind of attention before, after all, no matter how hard he’d tried.  He’d sort of forgotten that France actually paid attention to him.  Canada was waiting outside the hotel, checking his watch uncertainly while simultaneously telling himself he was stupid for worrying if France had forgotten when he was only five minutes late, when a warm arm snaked around him and squeezed, and Canada was quickly enveloped in the scent of France.  “Tres beau, Mathieu,” France said warmly, his breath softly fanning Canada’s ear, and Canada jumped and bit the inside of his lip.  “You look magnifique.”  His hand skimmed down over the curve of Canada’s ass, and squeezed lightly.  Canada squeaked, he could hear his own voice breaking on the sound, and flushed hot with embarrassment, and then even hotter because France’s hand was on his ass, sort of lingering there.  “These jeans are stupéfiant, how is it that I have never seen you in them before?  I have been deprived of a great treasure, a light of my life, mon ange, I never thought that you, of all people, who are so sweet, could be so cruel as to keep something such as the sight of you in these from me—”

He was still draped over Canada, Canada could feel France all around him, pressed against his back and side, close and warm and—and—there and touching him, even though his slim, long-fingered hand had skimmed up to press close against the small of Canada’s back and stayed there, and it was—it was really hard to think.  “I—I just got th-them, that’s why,” Canada managed, his voice breaking over the words.

“Oho,” France chuckled, and brushed his other hand against Canada’s cheek.  “This makes me rather glad you are in my city at the moment, cheri.”

“Why?” Canada asked bluntly, turning his head to look up at France.  He knew his cheeks were burning, but he refused to drop his eyes.

France just smiled, a full, bright, dazzling smile that left Canada weak in the knees, his heart tangling up with his throat.  “Because,” France said, “the likelihood of my having to cause an international incident over the attention you looking so very ravishing, as you do in those jeans, with that extremely well-chosen shirt that makes your eyes shine like the sky, might attract—”  He brushed Canada’s cheek with his thumb.  “It is much less, as I have you all to myself at the moment, n'est-ce pas?”

Canada flushed deeper and looked down.  “Quit it, Francis,” he said.  “I’m—I mean, you wouldn’t have to worry about that.  You’re the only one who’d ever notice, anyway.”

“Oh, Mathieu,” France said, and there was pain in his voice, but Canada just shook his head, quickly.  He didn’t need sympathy, not like that.  It’d just get him thinking, and then he’d be a mess, and that was stupid.

“Thanks, though,” he said.  “Where did you want to go first?  I’ve been to the Eiffel Tower with you before, but Alfred and Arthur were both there and they were fighting, remember?  Both of the most recent times we went.  It might be nice to go again so I could actually enjoy it this time instead of worrying that one of them was going to push the other off or something.”

“Mathieu—” France started, but he sighed and stopped as Canada set his jaw and looked up at him.  Canada could feel the same strange, tight, aching mix of stubborn determination and mute pleading on his face that he felt twisted up in his chest.  He didn’t think he could take France talking about how the others ignored him, or even worse, trying to comfort him over it.  “Ah,” France said, after a moment.  “Very well.  We can most certainly go, if you wish it, though I have some places of my own that I would like to show you, first, if that would be acceptable?”

Canada nodded and acquiesced.  Anywhere France wanted to show him was fine with him; it was his city, after all, and he’d let Canada show him around his own house with good grace and honest enjoyment when the G8 conference had been held there the year before.  Either way, Canada was sure it would be a pleasant day—even with all his worries and insecurities and . . . and everything, it was always nice to spend time with France. 

And all flirting aside, France was an amazing host.  They started out with a late breakfast of coffee and pastries (France brushed chocolate off Canada’s lip and Canada almost spilled his coffee), and then France took him to a variety of shops so eccentric Canada couldn’t help but laugh, and for the rest of the morning forget his anxiety over everything France-related as France showed him shops devoted entirely to canes, to Champagne corks (it was endearing, really, just kind of adorable, how fascinated by them France was, and how much he knew about them, and Canada’s heart thumped unevenly, painfully, in his chest as he tried to tell it to stop it and go back to normal), a shop that sold furniture for dolls (which was just silly, but still fun, and Canada couldn’t help but be interested by how much detail there was in each tiny piece), a shop that sold only tin soldiers (it made Canada think of his brother), though France mainly exclaimed over the Napoleon ones, and made Canada help him set them up.  Canada planned out a campaign and ended up tipping Napoleon over with one finger as France reacted dramatically, laying one hand over his heart and protesting loudly that Canada had destroyed him.  “Very well fought, Mathieu,” he said then, and Canada had looked down at his shoes, because he didn’t have much experience actually planning wars rather than fighting in them and he’d been sure France had been letting him win, but France had said it with enough genuine sincerity that Canada could believe that he’d meant it.

“Thank you,” he’d said, trying not to work his fingers into the hem of his shirt and twist them nervously the way they twitched to do—bad habit, he thought, stop it, Matt—and blushed.

France had just said, “Oh, Mathieu,” again, and complemented him again on the finer points of his tin soldiers strategy, and Canada had felt warm, helpless against the hum of flustered pleasure tingling in the back of his mind at how serious France sounded about the whole thing, and thought that it would be easier to talk himself out of this, well, whatever it was, with France, if France didn’t make him feel so smart and . . . and special, all the time.

Lunch was at a small café that France swore was the best in Paris, and the food was mind-blowingly good.  The elderly owners knew France and directed them to a little corner on the back balcony, and the old woman smiled knowingly at the two of them in a way that made Canada blush.  France just smiled back at her and looked at Canada in a way that was almost more intimate than a touch would have been as they sat down together and Canada thought that maybe he was in a lot of trouble, because he was still confused, and he still had no idea what was going on, and there was no way, there was just no way, but France had never teased him like this before, so why was he doing it now?

But thinking like that made him feel a little hopeless, and Canada did want to enjoy his time with France, so he pushed all those thoughts away and concentrated on lunch.

And the food there at the little café really was amazing, though Canada had sort of a hard time keeping his mind on it, great as it was, too focused on . . . everything else, on the exhilaration brought simply by talking to France—it was always sort of strange, being with France, because of the way France encouraged him to talk.  By the end of lunch Canada had nearly forgotten about his depressing thoughts in the joy of simply being in France’s company.  As their plates were cleared he bit his lip and looked down.  “Sorry for talking your ear off,” he said, “I just . . .”

“No, no!” France said quickly.  “Not at all, mon cher.  In fact, it is a dear wish of mine that you would talk like this more often.”

It was nice of him to say so, but Canada could recognize more flirting when he heard it.  France’s eyes were bright and warm with interest, and very focused on—on Canada, who bit the inside of his lip to quell his flustered stammers before they managed to escape.  France did nothing, merely sat and looked at him for a moment, leaning slightly over the small table.  He was staring at Canada with such intensity that Canada felt his ears going red.  “Wh-what?” he stammered, reaching up to swipe at his cheeks, rub his hand over his mouth.  “I have lunch on my face, don’t I?”

The look in France’s eyes was so . . . soft, inexpressibly tender.  “Non,” he said.  “You do not.”

“Why are you looking at me, then?” Canada asked, swallowing hard and trying to tell himself that he didn’t feel like he was falling at that look in France’s eyes.  “Like—like that?”

“Because,” France said, “it is a very great pleasure looking at you, Mathieu.  Especially while you talk.”  Canada could feel his face shading into an even deeper red, and France smiled.  “Besides,” he added, with just a hint of teasing in his tone, “it is only natural to look at one who is speaking, is it not?”

Canada looked down and started folding and unfolding his napkin, unable to look across at France any longer without . . . spontaneously combusting from the heat of his own blush or something.  Or simply grabbing France by his loosely knotted tie and kissing the smile right off his lips.  The thought made Canada’s face feel even warmer.  He was starting to get a little dizzy.  “Is it?” he muttered.  “I suppose I wouldn’t really know.”

He needed to get a grip on himself.  France had just said that it wasn’t anything; that it was just—just courtesy—hadn’t he?  Canada needed to think about that.  Carefully.  Couldn’t get his hopes up.  Couldn’t let his own feelings get too out of hand.  It had always been too easy to read . . . things into France’s actions; that was just the way France was.

And Canada had always been guilty of doing it; he needed to remember that, too.  After all, wasn’t that exactly what he’d done as a child?  Assumed that France’s fond words and attention and affectionate gestures meant they’d always be together, that France would never give him away, or forget him, or give up on him, or even just go back to his life without him—but it hadn’t, hadn’t meant that at all, hadn’t meant any of those things, and Canada realized now that it hadn’t been altogether realistic for him to expect it.  Well, he’d been a child then, and that was the kind of thing little kids thought; he hadn’t realized how unreasonable it was.

But he didn’t have that excuse anymore.  Now he knew the truth perfectly well, and so he had to deal with it.  Canada took a deep breath and bit the inside of his lip, swallowing until his throat was clear and he felt like he could trust his voice again, felt like a smile would stay on his lips.  He smiled and looked up at France.  “So,” he said.  “You’re the one with the plan.  What’s after lunch?”

The look in France’s eyes shifted a bit, his expression sobering, and Canada felt a quick shock of startled panic—why was he looking at him like that?  Had Canada’s bizarre behavior, his strange jumpiness, finally gotten too frustrating for him?—before the smile returned France’s face in full force, and Canada felt the muscles in his own shoulders relaxing again.  “Ah,” France said.  “It is a surprise, cheri.”

Canada smiled back at him, half out of pure relief, and set about trying to convince France to spill the nature of the surprise to him, but he was left wondering what the moment of sadness, almost regret, on France’s face had meant.  But then, he’d probably just imagined it.




End of part one.  To be continued . . . .