A/N: This is just... a cute one-shot I wrote for my France. ~3 The request wanted the story to do with hands. Similarities and differences. And... well... this is what I came up with! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing! NOTHING I TELL YOU! NOTHIIIIING!!

Different, Yet Alike

love is like a movement
of fingers through the waves
forgotten except for those
who witness its momentary ripples
in the sea from day to day

Matthew could remember when he was very small, he used to grab Francis' hand whenever it was in reach and press his own tiny palm to it, staring at the vast difference in size as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. He remembered climbing into his guardian's lap to get a closer look as Francis smiled indulgently at him and moved an arm to stop him from falling off.

"Fwancis!" he would always exclaim, his wide eyes turning up to look at the older nation. "Your hands!! Soooo big!"

Every time, Francis would laugh and ruffle his hair. "When you are older, mon cher, your hands will be just as big as mine."

The conversation happened so many times in Matthew's childhood that it almost seemed like a recurring dream to him as he grew up. However, one incident stood out most in his mind. When he was slightly older and having the conversation for probably the hundredth time, Matthew could remember changing it up a little bit. And he decided that this was probably the moment when he had realized that his feelings for his guardian were more than platonic.

"Francis!" he exclaimed, as he usually did, but he had long since lost the adorable lisp that had marred his words when he was younger. "Your hands are still so big! And strong! And so gentle…" His bottom lip trembled as he adjusted himself uncomfortably on Francis' lap. He was starting to get too big to be sitting on the Frenchman's lap, but he refused to give it up until he absolutely had to. And Francis didn't seem to have a problem with it either.

Francis' smile was soft, not the usual beaming that he gave to his young charge. Later, Matthew would come to realize that this was a smile that became solely reserved for him. "Ah, but my promise will come true, mon ange," he said quietly, his hand brushing through Matthew's hair gently. "Your hands will be exactly like mine when you're older. Croyez-moi."

And Matthew had always trusted Francis. Completely and explicitly.

Now, sitting on the couch, leaning against the man who had become his lover, Matthew grabbed his hand and placed his own palm against it. His eyes widened in fascination as, for the first time, he saw that his hands were exactly the same size as Francis'. And yet, despite his dearest wishes as a child, he felt that his hands had not become like Francis' in any other way.

Sighing dejectedly, Matthew pulled his hand away, only to find it caught by Francis. The older man was looking at him intensely, in a way that Matthew had come to associate with the more serious side of the Frenchman. He enjoyed every facet of Francis' personality, but whenever this side came out, Matthew always found himself breathless almost instantly. Tilting his head slightly to one side, the Canadian gave Francis a questioning look.

"What were you looking at, Mathieu?" Francis asked softly, bringing the captured hand to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to the palm. Shivers ran through Matthew's body, simply from the soft brush of lips.

Swallowing and turning his face away to hide the blush that had crept over it, Matthew replied. "Your hand. Our hands, actually. They're not really the same. Mine aren't strong and gentle, like yours."

The soft laugh drew Matthew's attention back to his lover, who was still holding onto his hand, but now he had pressed their palms together once again. "Au contraire, Mathieu," he said softly, bringing his other hand up to brush over the back of Matthew's hand. "Your hands are strong, just as mine are."

Francis' fingers played across the back of Matthew's hand gently, sending strange ripples of delight through the young Canadian. "Your hands have helped people to stand when they have fallen, just as mine have caused them to fall. And they are gentle." The fingers stopped at Matthew's wrist and turned the hand slowly to turn his palm towards the ceiling. Francis bent his head over the palm, placing his lips to the heel. "As I have used my gentleness to trick, you have used it to heal."

In complete awe, Matthew watched Francis kiss every inch of his palm methodically. By the time his lips reached the tip of Matthew's middle finger, he had been reduced to shivering. Francis always had this sort of effect on him.

"Your hands are exactly like mine, mon amour," Francis continued, bringing Matthew's hand up to cup his cheek. Rubbing his cheek against the hand, Francis' eyes slipped closed for a moment before one opened to look at Matthew. And the Canadian was graced with that small, gentle smile that was reserved only for him. "Just in a different way."

The conclusion shot through Matthew like an epiphany and he smiled shyly at the man he had loved all his life - the man he had always dreamed of being like.

And he realized that his dream had come true, if not in the way he had always thought it would.