First Hetalia fic, and I use it on FrancexCanada.
Heheh.

These two need more love, really! There's not a lot of them on this site.
So.. forgive me if this sucks. I've been failing with writing, recently. But hopefully it's a little enjoyable!

Both country and persona names will be used in this. I'm rating it T ... just in case, you know?

"AND IN conclusion- England, you can also be my back-up!!"

Four seated characters groaned faintly, two of them lowering their heads to rest it on the conference table beneath them. Did any of their small meetings ever turn out differently? The loud-mouthed superpower always felt like he had to be their 'hero' to save them from the 'evil ' powers of the Axis, and no strategy plans would be made, no new possible ideas for new alliances- nothing. America was the Hero, every one else followed, and that was that.

Beside the self-appointed Hero, a quiet figure sighed and reached out a hand, tugging at the leather bomber jacket as a sign of wanting attention to turn to him. "Alfred... don't you really think you should.. plan that out better?"

"Ah, chéri, let it go." came a voice from across the table, and the frenchman's head lifted from the table to look over to the head of the room. Blue eyes met cobalt and something in the quiet nation's throat hitched, as if he simply couldn't breathe anymore. Francis's voice was the only one that Canada now heard [even if his brother's was currently at its most obnoxious level while he ranted on] and he watched quietly as the other blonde's lips slowly moved. "Vous savez qu'il ne va pas écouter..."

Upon hearing France talk in his native tongue, even America paused. "France," the superpower said, with a seemingly worried expression. "Who are you talking to?"

"Me! Ca-na-da!" the younger brother whined, reaching up to tug on America's jacket. "Kumajiro! Tell him!" he exclaimed, even as America paid absolutely no attention to his own brother.

"Who?" came the polar bear's quiet reply as he slid off the chair and sat down, pawing at his own nose. It was then that Canada groaned and decided to pick up the soft white bear as he exited the room. Why did he even come to the meetings? No one ever noticed him there, anyway. Other than Francis. Francis seemed to be the only one that knew he was still there.

Shortly after exiting the room, Mathieu swore he heard England mutter "Bloody hell, Alfred, how do you ignore your own brother?" and Francis's loud, often-dramatic sigh fill the room. But he didn't turn back, and just went straight home.

--

Flipping through the channels at home, Mathieu could only sigh. Nothing on, figures. There was never really anything on. So he turned off his television set and turned to pet his polar bear gently, running his hands through the matted fur, shaking his head. "You need a bath," he commented, to which the polar bear whined a bit. "Don't want one," said the bear as he pawed at Mathieu's lap, curling up, obviously tired.

They stayed like that for a while, resting, before the Canadian heard a knock at his own door. He didn't feel like moving yet, and he knew he hadn't locked it [a bad habit of his, he knew, he knew...], so he just called out "It's open!"

The door soon swung open and in walked the country that had once been Canada's caretaker all those decades and centuries ago. France.

"Salut," the frenchman said oh-so casually as he shut the door behind him, and unlike Canada, actually locked it before going inside the house. "You should learn to lock your doors, chéri. It's not safe knowing anyone could just waltz in."

"Je sais," Mathieu murmured, unknowingly speaking in the tongue that Francis had taught him so long ago. He didn't use it as much anymore, but often, it slipped, and he didn't bother to stop it. It was just who he was.

It was quiet as Francis walked towards the couch that the strawberry-blonde was slumping upon, and he looked over to the bear in his lap. "Kumajiro," whispered the older nation. "Off, please."

The polar bear grumbled something sleepily then but obliged to the request, waddling off of his master and heading over to a little corner, where it was warm and nice thanks to the way the heating in this house worked. The white creature wallowed around a little then, rolling its paws around and soon letting out a yawn that ended in a mild squeak before plopping over to try and fall asleep properly. Watching his comrade do such a strangely-adorable routine before going to sleep made Canada chuckle faintly and in turn, France smiled.

Afterwards, Canada glanced up once he felt some weight placed upon his hips. There he saw France, effectively straddling the younger country, his hands slowly shifting to rest near his chest while he leaned forward and worked on getting Canada's tie off. "I don't know how he cannot notice you," muttered the lightly-bearded nation, watching his fingers work meticulously as they slid the tie out of its hold. "With you dressed so nicely...très beau..."

There was a sigh, which fogged up Mathieu's glasses faintly. Now due to the suddenly blurred vision, he decided to close his eyes as he whispered. "I'm used to it by now, papa." he felt France's fingers pause in their work, and he knew that last word had struck something deep in the blonde. It'd been so long since he'd been called that.

"Rest assured, you will not be ignored by me." came a husky whisper then, and soon, the Canadian felt some weight being taken off the bridge of his nose. He opened his eyes to see, and he was glad that he was at least able to see very well up close, for when his eyes opened he saw those metallic eyes he so dearly loved gaze back at him with such splendor, such need, and he felt his heart skip multiple beats at the sight. "You are far too special to be ignored by me."

Mathieu smiled widely then, his hands slowly beginning to move upwards so he could thread his fingers through those golden, shining locks that could belong to no one other than his Francis. "Je t'aime, François." he whispered then, and the whisper ended in somewhat of a giggle because while he'd spoken, Francis had tilted his head to begin kissing at his neck; a sensitive, ticklish spot of Mathieu's, known only by very few and taken advantage of only by one.

Kisses turned into licks, and licks turned into nibbles, and by the time Mathieu's head was swimming with pleasure he could barely hear "And I you, mon petit chaton," before he felt France lead him into a world of bliss.

Shooort. But fun to do.
Vocabulary! [Some of these may be wrong, but cut me some slack, I'm still taking French and all that stuff...]

chéri- beloved

Vous savez qu'il ne va pas écouter- You know he will not listen

Salut- casual way of saying "hello"

Je sais- I know

très beau- very handsome [in this context]

Je t'aime, François- I love you, Francis [François would be the generic French form of his name]

mon petit chaton- my little kitten

Aand... that's that.