A/N:

TA: 2up, people. poma'2 here wiith a new fic, ii gue22. 2eem2 kiinda poiintle22, 2eeiing a2 2he'2 a horriible author.

TC: yO, mOtHeRfUcKeR, cAlM yO wIcKeD sElF. ;o) hOnK hOnK

AT: uM, yOU GUYS,,, i THINK pOMA'S TRYING, tO GET ON HER HUSKTOP, uH, pROBABLY,

TA: ju2t makiing 2uggestiion2, tavro2. nothiing more.

((Sollux, Gamzee, Tavros, get off of my computer!))

[5 mins later]

*pant, puff* Hi, people! (hahaha. I love Homestuck so so so so so much, I cannot even. XD)

Anyways, welcome to my newest fic! I hope it is to your liking, everyone. :D Another Franada~! I love this pairing so much. Although, this one's a little different. See, I usually ship Franada alongside USUK, but this time Al is... straight? WOAH! AHHHHHH WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN- /shot

But still, in complete seriousness, this is a really sad fic. What the fuck, poma. Really, Sol wasn't kidding when he called me a horrible author. *cries* This has, like, no conceivable plot. Also I made it super angsty (as usual HAHAHA!). Why, why, why.

But tell me if you like it.

If I need to go back and do some edits, please tell me. Dokey okey? :P

Dedicated to~ Lace Kyoko, for proofreading YET AGAIN and being the coolest fanfic buddy ever, Im-so-startled (on deviantART) for introducing me to the wonderful fandom of Hetalia, and for everyone else for actually bothering to read my crap. Also thanks to Himaruya for lending me his thingy. You're a chill motherfucker, ya know that? We should sit down for Faygos sometime and talk about fangirl things. :o)

Nepeta, wanna do disclaimers?

AC: :33- poma doesn't own hetailia, purrrr~! she doesn't own us, either! Huss does. :3

((Nep, stop making cat puns. "Het-tail-ia? Really? Sometimes I'm worried about calling you my patron troll...))

Enjoy...? :/

My first mistake was applying for a summer job at La Crèperie.

My second mistake was ever thinking my older brother would try to protect me to the ends of the earth.

And my third and biggest mistake was falling in love with a man named Francis Bonnefoy.

.OoO.

It was the summer after my first year of university. My foreign exchange program that would start that coming fall brought me to Paris, and I thought it'd be nice to get a head-start and spend the summer holidays there. I decided that this would be the summer of fun and adventure.

However, I needed to get some kind of cashflow, and I knew of a little independent crèpe shop down the street from my apartment on Rue Voltaire, in the 11th arrondissement. So, upon finding they were in the process of hiring, I applied and was immediately employed.

Being Canadian definitely helped. Without my Quebecois roots and knowledge of French, I would have definitely been lost; an "American in Paris" complex. I was glad that I had stayed in Canada with my mother when my parents split up. My American brother Alfred would have gone nuts in France.

So the money was decent, the hot Paris air was balmy and humid, my apartment was lovely, the crèpes were crisp and fresh, and the city was breathtaking. And nothing could possibly go wrong.

Until one scorching day in mid-June.

I was serving savory crèpes to an elderly couple, when a tall blond man walked into the crèperie with an arrogant look on his face. He sat down at a table (against the "Please Wait to be Seated" policy) without batting an eyelid and called me over rudely.

"Et alors, petit homme? The usual, and I don't have much time."

Scowling at him, but deciding to keep my mouth shut, I went into the kitchen and asked one of my coworkers to help me. She sighed resentfully and followed me into the dining area. When she caught sight of the long-haired, curt man, she nodded solemnly. "Oui, his name is Francis Bonnefoy. He prefers a honey-and-sugar crèpe with rose-infused hot chocolate. Very particular, but he comes here every week to order the same thing. Serve him correctly, he just might give you a small tip. Tell the cooks it's Monsieur Bonnefoy; they'll know what to make."

I dashed off to the kitchen to alert the chefs of Monsieur's order. They quickly prepared it and I brought the meal to him on a tray and a small smile of customer service on my face. "Tenez, monsieur, your crèpe and chocolat. Enjoy," I told him, using my best social skills.

He daintily bit into his crèpe, not taking his eyes away from me the entire time. As he finished the last sip of his drink, he carefully dabbed at his perfectly rounded lips with a napkin and pushed his plate towards me; on it was a few euros-the cost of his meal. He smiled a mysterious smile and said, "I like you, petit; what's your name?"

"Matthew, sir," I answered, puzzled as to why he'd want to know my name. Surely such a haughty person wouldn't give a damn?

"Mathieu, huh? I'll have to remember you. You're a very good waiter." He stood up, draping his cloak elegantly over his shouder and turning out of the door, but not before giving me another curious little grin.

.OoO.

I saw him every week after that, and he always requested me to serve him. But he just ordered the same thing, every time. One day, I was curious to see his reaction to something different.

So when I went to the chefs to place his order, I ordered a maple syrup crèpe instead. I wondered if he'd enjoy something native to my homeland. I set his plate on the table, watching his face eagerly for any sign of reaction.

When the amber liquid poured onto his tongue as he took the first bite, his perfectly shaped eyebrows furrowed for a bit, then he smiled. "What is this?" he asked.

Backtrack, backtrack! "M-maple, sir, i-if you'd like me to bring it back-"

He interrupted me with a small laugh. "Non, Mathieu, it is delicious. Stop stuttering, please!" And then he ordered another.

From then on we developed a sort of strange friendship. I was always unsure about whether or not he'd be angry or pleased with me. One day, he was extremely frustrated, and when I didn't bring him his food fast enough he threw a water glass at me. I narrowly missed it, but it was close; I was relieved there that there were no other patrons in the restaurant to see it happen. Other days, he'd bring in a book to lend to me, claiming it was one of the greatest of French Literature, completely enamoured with the world.

And then on the first day of July, on my 19th birthday, he asked me to walk with him along the banks of the Seine.

Summoning all my courage, I managed to stutter a small "y-yes," whereupon he grabbed me by the hand and pulled me after him into the Metro station, clambering with me onto a train. I didn't even have time to remove my apron.

We arrived at our stop, squinting against the setting sun, and we started walking along the river. Many couples were there with us, either holding hands, hugging or kissing. Everyone seemed so happy, so carefree. Frankly, it made me a little jealous and lonely, and I subconsciously hugged myself in comfort.

Francis noticed me with my arms around myself and smiled a little. "Mathieu..." he spoke softly, nudging my arm a bit. I looked up into his bright blue eyes. My heart trembled, and my body along with it.

He finally spoke, although barely above a whisper so only I could hear.

"I want to kiss you."

And then I felt myself go bright red, and my vision blurred with tears, and he leaned down to press his soft lips to mine.

And something changed inside me.

And I kissed back.

Over the course of the next week we did everything together. He took me to dinner; we went on long walks in the Jardin de Luxembourg and laughed at the antics of the local pigeons; on the Bâteaux Mouches, even though we weren't tourists; went shopping the Quartier Latin's flea markets; prayed at the Basilique de Saint-Denis; went to the ballet.

I learned a lot about him: he was two years older than I, he had no brothers or sisters, he worked as an interior designer for the rich people of the 1er arrondissement, he was full French. In turn, he learned about me as well: I had a 25-year-old brother named Alfred who lived in New York City, I was doing a year abroad to study Philosophy in Paris, I was French-Canadian with a French mother and a British father.

And life was so perfect.

.OoO.

One night, after getting back to my apartment from a day out with Francis, my cell phone chimed its usual jingle. Glancing at the caller ID and smiling, I answered it and uttered a small, "H-hello?"

"Hey, Matt!" came the loud, somewhat obnoxious reply. "How's my favourite little brother doin' all the way over in Paris?"

Not bothering to point out that I was his only brother, so I had to have been his favourite, I chuckled a bit. "I'm good, and yourself, Alfred?"

"Hahahahaha! You know I'm fine, Matty, I'm always fine!" he guffawed. "Been eating a lot of good food there? A hero like myself always wants new stuff to nibble on!"

Alfred loved food. He also had an extreme hero complex; meaning, he thought it was his duty to protect me from harm's way. It came in handy when I was in high school where I got my ass handed to me daily by my classmates, but now it was just getting... ridiculous. Still, he had good intentions. I think.

"Uh... crèpes? I got a job at this crèpe shop down the street from my apartment. When I get back, I'll make some for you, how's that?" I promised, grinning at my brother's culinary appreciation. And silliness. Sometimes I wondered who was the older one.

"Great! I can't wait, Matt. I know I don't really say this often, but, uh, I'm really proud of you. You know, for doing college and stuff. And travelling abroad. Because I could never do that, you know? Not much travelling involved for a pre-med grad with no job. Heh. Anyways, I'll talk to you soon, okay, Matt? It's 4 pm over here and the guys and I are going out to pick up some chicks." My brother loved to party and get drunk, especially when there were women involved. One-night stands, though, mostly. I always wondered what it was like to sleep with people mindlessly without any emotional attachment to them whatsoever.

"Sounds great, Al, have fun, eh? And thanks," I smiled softly.

"Okay, talk later, bro!" he shouted into the phone before hanging up.

"O-okay, Alfred," I spoke quietly as the line went dead from my brother's apparent ADHD.

.OoO.

Two weeks later, Francis and I decided to go to his apartment for dinner.

We ate well, a nice Salade Niçoise and tender steak, accompanied by a glass of some of his elegant aged Bordeaux wine. We ended up getting a little tipsier than planned, and after dinner we started to kiss on his couch.

Tipsy young people, kissing, and a couch do not usually mix well, and before long we found ourselves snogging fiercely, him on top of me. Soon enough I felt a hand slip up my button-down shirt, and I broke the kiss, terrified.

"Francis, w-what..." I squeaked, but he put a finger to my lips.

"Mathieu..." he breathed, his face flushed with passion and inebriety, " I want to make love to you."

I gulped. "I-I've never... um... I don't know how to."

He just smiled sweetly at me and nuzzled me. "Then let me teach you," he kissed me softly. "Let me teach you to fly."

And so he did.

After, when I laid in his arms, panting and giddy with joy from the first-time experience, he kissed me sweetly and told me I was the most beautiful man to have ever graced the earth. I blushed furiously.

"Have you told Alfred about... us?" he asked after a moment of silence, absentmindedly stroking my hair.

I froze a little. "Uh, no... I was planning on doing that tomorrow," I whispered back.

He smiled softly. "Good. Now, we should get some sleep, mon ange."

I nodded, and we fell asleep together in a warm embrace.

.OoO.

The next day, I was back in my apartment, trying to find ways to come out to Alfred. I was scared, because I'd always known that even though he was quite a free spirit, he was extremely conservative. I mean, beyond Republican. It was to the point of thinking Russians were 'commie bastards' and that 'God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve'.

But surely it would be different with his own brother...

Right?

Suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted by my computer making its usual chat noise. Alfred was messaging me.

SuperHero04 began chatting with MapleBear at 13:06 CET.

SuperHero04 (13:06): hiya matty!
MapleBear (13:06): Oh, hello, Alfred!
SuperHero04 (13:07): so wassup lil bro, how goes it in paris?
MapleBear (13:08): Oh, you know, same old, same old. ^^;
SuperHero04 (13:10): cool.
SuperHero04 (13:12): anything new?
MapleBear (13:13): Uh, nothing...
SuperHero04 (13:15): DID YOU GET LAID?
MapleBear (13:16): ...Perhaps?
MapleBear (13:17): Okay, you caught me...
SuperHero04 (13:17): awesome! :D was she hot?
SuperHero04 (13:20): matty?
MapleBear (13:20): I'm here.
Superhero04 (13:20): soooo? was she hot? was it good? tell me matt! youre killing me!
MapleBear (13:22): Um...yes.
SuperHero04 (13:22): yes what? which one?
MapleBear (13:23): Uh, both.
MapleBear (13:23): Yeah.
SuperHero04 (13:24): matt, is there something you wanna tell me...?
MapleBear (13:26): ...yes.
MapleBear (13:27): Al, please don't get mad at me.
MapleBear (13:27): I'm pretty sure I know what I'm doing.
MapleBear (13:27): But there's something important you need to know.
MapleBear (13:28): Um, Alfred...
MapleBear (13:29): When I lost my virginity last night
MapleBear (13:29): It was not
MapleBear (13:30): To a woman.
MapleBear (13:32): Al?
SuperHero04 (13:33): matt, what are you saying?
MapleBear (13:36): Alfred.
MapleBear (13:38): I'm gay.
MapleBear (13:38): I slept with a man last night.
MapleBear (13:38): My boyfriend.
MapleBear (13:38): I have a boyfriend now.
SuperHero04 (13:41): matt get on the phone right now.
MapleBear (13:41): Alfred?
SuperHero04 (13:41): goddamn just do it matt for fucks sake

SuperHero04 ended the chat with MapleBear at 13:41 CET.

My cell phone rang a few minutes later.

Heart beating fast like a runner who just finished a race, I warily answered the call. "H-hello?"

"What the hell, Matthew. What the actual hell."

I didn't have to guess who that was. "Alfred, I-"

"No, Matthew. I always knew you were a little off, but I never would have guessed you were a fuckin' queer. I mean, is this what those fuckin' French people do to you? Huh? If that's the case, pack your goddamn bags and come back here to where people are normal and decent, not like those French fags."

"N-no, Alfred," I was close to tears here, "I-I've always known, even w-when I was in m-middle school. O-okay? F-Francis had n-nothing to do with this."

"Francis, is that your boyfriend's name? Well, you can tell Francis that you never want to see him again."

I lost it. Tears flowed rapidly from my eyes as I spoke, and my voice quavered violently. "N-no, Alfred, I love him, I won't say that! H-he's my entire w-world! He means everything to me!"

A scoff. "Well, shit, Matthew, if this is the way you want it, for you to be an unnatural little homo, then you can just delete me off your contacts list, you cocksuckin' freak. I never wanna talk to you again. I'm fuckin' ashamed to call you my brother."

And then he hung up, just like that.

I stood still in shock for a while, phone still in hand and my mouth agape. When a strangled cry finally escaped my throat, I completely fell apart. Dropping to my knees and letting the cell phone slip through my fingers, I began to sob, my face in my hands. My shoulders hitched and tears ran freely down my cheeks as I wept for the loss of Alfred. My best friend. My brother. My hero.

All because I was... how did he put it?

An unnatural little homo.

A cocksucking freak.

A fag.

I felt dirty. Pitiful. Awful. Like there was some disgusting curse on me separating me from normal life. I wanted Alfred back so badly, and he'd just rejected me like some old, smelly rotting food. There was a huge ache in the core of my heart, like someone had drilled a huge hole into it.

A knock sounded at my door. Trying to pick myself up as best as I could, I wiped my eyes and opened the door. There stood Francis, whose smile disappeared immediately once he saw my tear-stained, blotchy face.

"Mathieu? What happened?" he asked softly, concerned.

However, in the spur of the moment, I was so angry about what had happened between me and Al not five minutes before that I slapped Francis across the face.

The look on his face scared me: a mixture of hurt, terror and shock. He gingerly rubbed the spot that I hit him and his eyebrows slanted up in worry. "M-mathieu...?" he muttered.

"Just go," I whispered, avoiding his gaze.

"But..."

"I talked to Alfred," I uttered.

"What's so bad about that, Mathieu? What went on between you?" he questioned quietly.

"Oh, so you wanna know what happened, eh? Well, I just told Alfred about us, and you know what? That sleaze flat-out rejected me, called me a fag and a homo and a queer and who knows what, and then he hangs up on me saying he never wants to speak to me again and that he's embarrassed that a fruit like me is his brother!" I yelled, starting to cry all over again. "And you know what? I bet if I'd never met you, this would've never happened! So just... just leave!"

He looked shocked as hell, but he backed off respectfully, obviously hurt. "Well, Mathieu, just know you can always call me again. I love you," he murmured before walking away, down the hall of my floor.

.OoO.

Several months went by. It was October, I was doing my my studies at the Sorbonne. But all the while, I kept thinking of Francis. His soft, shoulder-length blond curls, his bright-cerulean expressive eyes, his many cloaks, his charmer attitude, the way he smiled, the way he said my name like it was a privilege to even speak.

And most of all, I just missed him.

So with a heavy, pounding heart, I decided to call him again.

After three rings, he answered. "Allô?"

"...Francis?" I spoke shyly.

"Matthieu...? Is that you?" he sounded incredulous.

I blushed. "Uh, yeah, it's me. Listen, um... I'm sorry for the way I overreacted that day... and I was wondering, uh..."

A moment of silence settled between us before he spoke again. "Oui, you were wondering?"

"C-could we try this again?" I breathed.

A sigh of relief. "I missed you so much, mon ange."

I smiled broadly, tears coming to my eyes. "I miss you too, Francis," I chuckled, my voice cracking with happiness.

A/N: Did you like...? o~o

This was written for a class, actually. OTL

Translations:

La Crèperie: the crèpe shop

Et alors, petit homme?: Well, little man?

Monsieur: Mr./Sir

Oui: yes

Non: no

Tenez, monsieur: Here, sir

Mathieu: French way of saying 'Matthew'

((being fluent in french helped a lot XD))

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