A/N: I should be shot for writing this. OOC FRANCE ANYONE??!!ONEONE. My first fanfiction for the Hetalia archive and it's about the resident pervert. But no, seriously, I think France has a serious side and I'd like to show it.

No pairings -- but, uh, maybe small hints at UsUk, FrUk, and Franada? I have no idea. *ROLLS*

I'm sorry. This thing is a chock-full of inaccurate history I'm attempting to remember from last semester, and of course I MUST throw Canada in there because I'm retarded and overly patriotic. And of course, I must also put excessive historical detailing because I am a scary history dork. Any historical inaccuracies (Come on, guys, I know you see them) shall be corrected if reported. I'm also sorry for chronological order – you jump around the timeline a couple times.

Aux Armes, Citoyen

Paris, 1756.

Francis Bonnefoy stood in the middle of the cobblestone street, watching his people starve, and he felt something that he hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Anger – absolute fury, actually – and unrest.

No matter what people (namely England) said, France cared about the residents of his nation. Seeing them suffer was physical pain to him and right now, he was feeling the poverty and famine strike like a vengeance. And he knew exactly who to blame it on.

They were the minority of the population, and yet they were given the better part of the income he worked hard to make – they were called the second estate. And they made him angry.

It wasn't just him, either; he could feel the resentment of his people. He could feel the mass panic every day; as people went to buy food and saw the prices steadily rising, fear and doubt setting in...

But what could he do? His people weren't strong enough.

All he could do was wait.

The glasses were askew on his flushed face as Francis kissed down the pale curve of his neck, running his tongue down one of the veins on his neck as Austria let out a strangled yelp of some sort. Looking up at the man pinned against the wall in the corridor with a kind of eerie look on his face, he mumbled against his skin, "Quite vocal, aren't you?"

"I-" he let out another fluttery moan as Francis pulled his cravat out from under his collar and ran fingers up his chest.

Versailles, 1767.

Would she make a good queen?

He stared in mild apprehension at the young girl of around fifteen swept into a low curtsy, blue eyes lingering on his face with a kind of air of arrogant anxiety. She certainly was wearing an elaborate outfit that took away from her natural beauty; she had nice eyes. Rather like his; a kind of dark blue that glittered almost vindictively like jewels in a box. He stared idly at his future Dauphine, watching as the silver wig glimmered under the crystal lights before jolting awake and kissing her hand. "Your name?" Francis asked politely, even though he already knew it. She seemed to try and smooth over her worried features before speaking.

"Maria Antonia von Hapsburg of Austria. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Marsielle, 1775

England had a stony expression on his face as he watched the British ships dock for French import (Yes, he imported textiles from England. Hell, they were good and cheap, thank you), not even bothering to insult the man next to him. It was as if he had dragged the weather of London with him – the skies of France were overcast and the ocean looked grey and choppy.

"Something the matter, Angleterre?"

There was no immediate reply, only a fierce glare; the one that clearly screamed, figure it out for yourself, you damn frog!

Francis sighed, running his hand through his hair. What had he done to set off the angry nation this time? "Why don't you just tell me what's gotten up your ass so that you can sto-"

"Why are you taking him away from me?" the words uttered were quiet but harsh, and had Francis not been the only one there he would've thought England was talking to the churning slate-grey water in the harbour. "He's like my son. And you're helping him run away."

"Alfred wants independence, not an escape." He kept his words short; he didn't want an argument right now. He would never admit to England that the money fuelling the American War of Independence was taking away from his own people through taxing – taking away from his own economy. No, he'd never.

Paris, 1672.

He looked upon with mild interest as the first coffeehouse was formed that year, idly watching the mild upturn of interest. When Francis was to look back on it centuries later, he would regret not paying more attention then he did when they first were established; he wasn't to know what a role they had played until it was over.

Many more years went by – two more King Louises– and soon they were bustling with life. To France's glee, several people had voiced resentment at the noble class already; his people were standing up, and he felt a tiny glimmer of pride. With the chattering bunches of people and gossipers came more and more philosophers and he watched as the Age of Enlightenment took over his nation. While France as a nation was still as worse off as it had been, Francis Bonnefoy was loudly arguing with several men about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin.

He stood there on the cobblestones; the cobblestone streets where people had starved to death, where people had stormed through the streets, and watched the bright crimson run down the stones with a morbid fascination.

New France, Canada, 1685

"And how are you doing, Mathieu?" Francis smiled kindly at the timid boy, who was clutching a large white bear to his chest. He was so tall now; shooting up like a plant in full sunlight but still had the slightly thin and awkward look of a newborn colt. Not to mention that he still looked a bit like him; Francis inwardly grinned, relishing the fact that the small colony's hair and his were too similar for England to entirely ignore.

He knew that both he and England used the North American brothers as an escape route – he wouldn't dare ask what was driving England away from his home soil, but he himself liked to check up on his Northwest Company Fur Traders when the glaring distress of France became too prominent.

"That's enough, you frog." England's dark figure stood in the doorway, glowering.

"Is it, now?" France gave the island nation an amused smirk. There was no reply. "Besides, Angleterre. I did find him first."

England clapped a hand onto the small boy's shoulder, and Canada gave a surprised squeak at the sudden weight. "I think you're a little bit unfit to be taking care of him right now, even if you could, France." It was the first foreshadowing of what was to come.

The nobles had revolted, it seemed, refusing to pay taxes and buy into Louis XIV's silly spending game.

Score one for France.

Philadelphia, 1780.

"How are things going?" France asked weakly, staring at an amazingly chipper Alfred.

"Ahaha! Things are going great!" America beamed. "We're definitely going to become our own country soon!"

Francis winced. "Is that so...?" He cleared his throat as something suddenly occurred to him. "How's your brother been doing?"

The change was almost immediate; a dark shadow obscured Alfred's eyes from view. "Canada...?"

"Yes." Francis tried not to shrink in fear as America gave a harsh, merciless laugh. "Mattie won't join us."

He gave a weak smile. He certainly couldn't imagine timid little Matthew fighting for independence. "Well now, he's simply afraid of what England—"

"He's expanded his borders," America interrupted, his blue eyes the icy shade of Atlantic glaciers. "He's taken Illinois and Detroit."

Francis quieted, and wondered what kind of person this new Canada was – England's puppet, no doubt. While he was at it, he prayed to the merciful lord that Arthur would stop being such a stubborn idiot and just give up already so that his economy would get better.

Paris, 1789.

They did not call themselves the third estate now – the class that represented most of Paris. They had renamed themselves the National Assembly and wanted a constitution of rights.

It was a bright morning, on the 20th of June, when the now-called National Assembly found themselves locked out of their room. Fearing the worst, they assembled in the tennis courts and made an oath.

"Never cry to the King. Meet quietly when the circumstances demand, until the constitution of France is happily singing."

Francis hid a smile. Score two for France.

Dark eyes met his; familiar dark eyes. The eyes that had saved him and the eyes that would kill him if allowed to live any longer. For a moment, the man under the cutting edge of the guillotine was almost convinced that he recognised France for who he really was. He sent Francis a small nod and blue eyes widened; no, no, they couldn't –

The blade fell, and a head dropped to the wooden platform stage.

Paris, 1789.

Le quatorze juillet, July was the day he was reborn in his eyes, where he was no longer the Monarchy of France but as the French Republic.

He – that king, that worthless king - had dismissed the one good minister of finance Francis had seen in a while. When the protestors started flowing through the streets of Paris like water, anyone important was locked up in Versailles, blissfully ignorant of the country they had neglected.

He had snarled something incomprehensible under his breath, red tingeing his vision. He was done screwing around and standing back to watch himself fall into ruins – he was a nation, dammit, and he wasn't going to stand down to a bunch of crazy tyrants who cared nothing for him.

He needed ammunition – weapons – he was going to overthrow these autocrats and become independent, like America, like everyone was doing. His mind raced furiously, distractedly, and he could hear the roar of people all around him.

Bastille, the prison, was ideal – it was loaded with thirty-thousand pounds of gunpowder. Storm it, the voice in the back of his mind whispered, and he was helpless to disobey with everyone already heading towards the jail. He was swept along into the crowd by his fury; was handed something...

Score three for France.

Varennes-en-Argonne, 1791.

Marie Antoinette – was she really not the young and pretty fourteen-year-old he remembered anymore? She, her husband and children had been caught escaping out of France, running to that spineless idiot Austria.

When he was told that his King and Queen were to be put under the beautiful, gleaming silver blade of the National Razor, he didn't know how he was supposed to feel. As the day approached, he forced himself to sit there—and watch the blood of his royal family splatter the wood.

Paris, 1792.

It was called the National Razor; a tall wooden structure with a gleaming silver blade that cut through flesh like it was water. It was praised from all corners; now people who were standing against the revolution could be cleared out of the way faster then ever before.

Francis did not say anything.

Paris, 1793.

Clack. England set his teacup down and glared fiercely at Francis. "What the hell are you thinking, France?!"

"That's Citoyen Bonnefoy, if you will."

"Whatever." England – actually, who cares about calling him by his nation name, Arthur – took another long drink of tea and put it down noisily again. "D'you have any booze?"

"No."

"Great. I have to talk to you while being sober." Arthur took a deep breath and gave Francis the critical eye he usually reserved for a misbehaving colony. "Don't you think you're going a little... overboard with this?"

Francis kicked Arthur under the table, and his northern neighbour's breech-clad leg lashed back angrily. "What do you mean, little Angleterre?"

"I mean." The shorter nation stood up out of his chair. "That daft revolutionary of yours!"

"Robespierre?" Francis raised a manicured eyebrow. "An-England, the man's a genius."

"Yes – well – what about that other maniac of yours?! The nutter with the newspaper!" His green eyes flashed. "Have you even read the rubbish in that thing?!"

Francis squeezed his eyes shut, fake-shuddering. "Will you please stop that outpour of slang, please?" He opened one eye. "You mean Marat, non?"

"Whatever. My point is," He lifted his chin haughtily. "I've had my share of revolutions, and I can tell you. You've gone too far."

"Ridiculous," Francis said coldly. "Calm down a little, Angleterre. My people have been suppressed for centuries; who are you to tell me that they have to bend backwards and conform to leaders once again?"

"I'm a fellow nation who's been through more than you!" Arthur gritted his teeth and his hands curled into fists around his grip on his frock-coat. That was going to wrinkle. "Don't act all high and mighty like you're the first nation to get a new government; I've done it plenty of times."

Francis folded his white hands on the table between them and gave his guest an unpleasant smile. "This is a competition? Don't act so jealous." He was feeling rather reckless; the fact that he was able to wave something over England's head for the first time in eons was making him giddy. "Yes – you're just jealous," he breathed, mirroring Arthur and standing up. "We're going to be a powerful republic – a world superpower – and we're going to take away all your precious little children that make you the stuffy nation rolling in money you are."

Arthur let out something that sounded a little like a snarl. "Is that why you're giving Alfred money?! To get him away from me?!" Francis saw tiny beads of blood on the other's lips; he must be biting his lip so hard that it was bleeding.

"You're always trying to take my colonies away from me," Francis whispered, letting several locks of hair fall into his face. "Canada. Seychelles. Dominica."

"This is going to come back to haunt you," was his parting goodbye as a furious Arthur left his house.

Paris, 1794.

Marat and Robespierre were dead.

Paris, 1794.

"Oi! You stupid frog! Open up this damn door!" An angry fist pounded at the gilded door, its pure rage almost radiating through the wood. Francis just rolled over, staring out the window on the other end of the room with glassy eyes.

"You evil little wanker of a bastard who deserves to die in a pi—That's it, why the hell am I even bothering?" Francis dimly heard footsteps fading away, and he finally rolled off his fainting couch with a reluctant sigh and opened the door a crack. He whispered, "England?"

The figure in the dark green retreating down the hall turned around and glared, reluctantly walking back. "So now you finally decide to open the door, you git?!"

"Yes." Arthur gave him a sharp, suspicious glare through narrowed eyes. "Are you… feeling alright?"

"What do you think?"

"I- look, it was just some revolutionaries!" the man in the doorway gritted his teeth.

"They were my path to freedom."

England stopped, glancing at him almost shyly. "Right." Straightening up, he gave his nemesis another glare as if to try and reignite his anger. "Maybe you've been too wrapped up in your own revolution to notice, but Alfred won his war."

"I noticed." How could he not? It had happened a long time ago.

While England as a nation had reluctantly acknowledged it long ago, Arthur Kirkland the person must be just waking up to it now. Francis felt a pang of sympathy, and with a shudder he realized that it was the first feeling he had felt since the death of what his revolution stood for.

He was only now just waking up from a daze of blood and gore; they were calling the past year the Reign of Terror now. Blinking slowly, Francis took Arthur into focus. "So… what brings you here?"

He sighed fiercely, and Francis leaned back as if to place himself out of the line of fire. "H-How should I know?!"

And so Arthur left.

Paris, still 1794.

"Papa?" A soft voice asked on the other side of the door. Francis heaved a sigh similar to Arthur's from a couple days ago, pulling it open by the handle. He started as he saw a very familiar milky-white face, framed by golden curls. He couldn't put his finger on who it was – so without thinking, he opened his mouth. "Who are you?"

"Canada," they replied simply, as though they were used to it, and he started. His tiny ex-colony had shot up several more inches and filled out; he had lost some of his awkwardness but was looking oddly small with a pinched face. "Mathieu? What are you doing here?"

"Mmmm—" he made a muffled noise into his polar bear's fur. He still had that thing? "England told me about your revolution."

"And?" Matthew started at Francis' cold tone. "... Well, I would have come sooner. But... I had... other things to worry about. Every colony does, eh?" He gave a nervous laugh, but Francis frowned.

"What happened? You... Mathieu, you didn't hurt Alfred, did you?!"

The colony was still, suddenly paling. "N... no."

"Really?"

"England made me." His voice was quiet. "I... I just... England needed more land, so he tried to expand my borders." He flushed. "It's fine now, though... we've signed a treaty..." a thin smile graced his features, and Francis followed suit, thinking idly to himself that he ought to spend more time with his colonies before England snatched them all up.

Mahé, still 1794.

The sole of his boot dug into the soft white sand, and the soft click of a gun was heard over the sound of the waves. England mirrored his motion, green eyes cold over the collar of his military uniform.

"Don't! Stop!"

A girl's voice. Francis dimly saw her dark head bobbing through his infantry. A girl didn't belong out on the battlefield! What was she doing? Seychelles stepped between them, fuming. "I don't want any of you to own me!" Her dark eyes looked angry as her old African accent started creeping into her voice. "I want to be independent!"

"Ridiculous," England said coldly. "Women don't meddle in men's affairs. Bugger off."

"Machette-" Francis started, and his precious Mashika sent him a look of loathing. "Not Machette. It's Republic of Seychelles. République des Seychelles, Repiblik Sesel. Get it right."

Paris. Naturally, still 1794.

When Francis approached the city of Paris, pulling his coat tighter around his frame, he caught the news; the radical Jacobins were dissolved. While the revolution was not over, it was so close. A new government had been put in place of five leaders. Francis slowly exhaled, finding himself able to breathe easily.

That was before he showed up as the new commander of the French Army. A dark-haired, fierce looking Corsican that he thought would have the true Italian blood to back off waving white flags; quite the opposite. It wouldn't be long until he'd help Francis conquer the world.

"You are... Napoleone Buonaparte, non?"

"I am."

A/N: I dare myself to write a Napoleonic Wars sequel—actually, no I don't. But the War of 1812 is tempting me.

NOTES:

- Believe it or not, it was actually an ITALIAN who first discovered Canada – John Cabot's real name was Giovanni Caboto. Though Great Britian is credited with discovering the country first since they were hiring the said Italian to find the West Indies. Hoho.

- During the Reign of Terror – the time during the French Revolution where it was basically a killing spree – everyone had to address each other as Citoyen, or citizen, to reinforce the idea that everyone was equal. This idea was actually later applied to Communism...

- Mashika is the human name I gave Seychelles. –ette is added to the end of a feminine French name to make it a nickname, hence Machette. I turned the SH into CH because CH is the "shhh" sound in French. Durrhurr—but anyway, Mashika is a name of East African origin meaning 'one who is born during the rainy season'. And yes, I know a machete is a type of butcher knife. They don't sound THAT similar... //Yes they do.// 8'DD

- Poor Sey-Sey. She didn't gain her independence until the 1900's. That little declaration there just represented the settlers and the minor riot for freedom that was brought on by the French Revolution.

Urgh. Was this confusing? Too full of history? I'm inclined to say both. I like history and thus I insist on stuffing it into every Hetalia fanfic I write instead of just bringing on the bishies. Which is TERRIBLE; it must really bore people 8'D

Gaha; well, any comments can be directed to me via reviewing or PM. Thanks for reading this! And if you made it to the end – you're awesome ;;