Author/Artist: chromatic_coma @ animusia
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Canada, France, brief England appearance; France/Canada
Genre: Romance, Lust
Warning(s): Handjobs, Slash, Abuse of French, Unexplained Time Travel (?)
Summary: When Canada finds himself in a strange new world, he gets to know someone who he didn't in his own time, and in a whole new way!
Notes: Written for the exchange @ maplesandroses, with the prompt: A time paradox of some sort brings youngteen!France and youngteencolonial!Canada together. Awkward mutual first times and exploration ensues.
He is not sure what has happened to him. The last thing that Canada remembers is going to bed, the calendar on his wall reading 1885, and then he woke up in a strange room, a man who looks eerily like America in the next bed over.
Things get even stranger from there. After recovering from the shock of a grown America in the room, and from all the strange, borderline creepy machine things that all the nations seem to have (but at least they, for the most part, look the same as he remembers them), he finds out that he is not longer in the 19th century, but the 21st.
And then he found out that he wasn’t alone.
Because, holing himself up in a room two doors down the hall, is a very, very young France. Or, at least, so the other nations are saying. Canada wants to go see him, if only because it would make him feel less alone this is scary new world that is so different from his own, but France is vehemently opposed to letting anyone in.
It takes a day for England to become annoyed enough to break down the door to France’s room. The other nations begin to crowd, until Germany comes to chase them all off. Canada is lucky that America has chosen now to finally feel brotherly towards him, because he is sure he would be as much of a spectacle as France is had he not had that protection. It is frightening, though, to be in a world where suddenly the brother he chased bunnies with and fought a war against is now the strongest nation in the world.
But even being with his brother, Canada feels lonely. He rationalizes this by figuring that this America is so different from the one he is accustomed to, and that he is probably different from the Canada this America is accustomed to. They are still themselves, but ones each other cannot understand.
Instead Canada looks to the boy behind that closed door, and he finds that he wants nothing more than to be with the only person who might be able to understand his situation. He wants to be with France.
The next day, he finds out that France wants to be with him, too. That is the day when England lets slip to France, who is, because of unfortunate circumstances, his roommate, that his is not the only intruder upon this millennium from the last one.
France, relieved that he is not as alone as he thinks, does not even care that Canada is from the 1800s and he from the 1600s, or even that he does not know of Canada as anything more than an infant. He requests that England pass along the message, and grudgingly England comes to Canada’s door.
“The little frog wants to see you, Canada. Is that alright?”
Canada thinks it’s more than alright, but around England he is cautious and tries to keep it subdued. England seems to notice this and pats Canada on the head affectionately, leaving him wondering what exactly transpired between his time and this time that changed England’s attitude towards him.
“It’s fine,” Canada insists, and England sighs.
“He’s not anything like the France that you remember, Canada. In his mind, you’re still a baby. Be careful what you say to him, so that you don’t reveal anything he doesn’t know.”
This is a rule Canada is well aware of, because he’s been put in a similar bubble. He’s been forbidden from attending any meetings, and banned from looking at any history books; other nations are discouraged from speaking to him, and even America has to bit his lip multiple times a day to prevent from telling Canada a thing. England insists upon this, saying something or other about trying to keep history as close to its normal course as possible, but America has speculated that England is trying to ease his guilt about all the years he failed at parenting.
At any rate, Canada finds himself at the door to France’s room, and when he knocks the reply comes nervously, “Qui est-ce?”
“Canada,” he replies softly into the door crack, keeping his voice lightly accented.”Est-ce que je peux entrer, s’il vous plait?”
There is no answer, but a moment later the door opens. Canada is taken off guard for a moment, because he honestly didn’t think to prepare himself for what a young France might look like. And certainly he did not expect it to feel like looking in a mirror, but it does.
Canada had always known that they looked alike, but their differences were enough to stand out; France always kept his hair longer, had thinner cheeks and a sharper jaw, and kept that little bit of stubble on his chin to give him age. But now, with France being so young, his face was still round with youth, his hair not grown out yet, and there wasn’t even a lick of facial hair. It was jarring, now, to find that the only real difference was their eye color.
France seemed to be thinking along the same line of thought, as his eyes had widened once they fell upon Canada. But then when he ushered the other in and shut the door, he is quick to say, “Mon Dieu, comme tu as grandi!”
Canada blushed, and let France’s eyes roam over him for a moment longer, until the other cleared his throat and looked away.
“ De quelle année viens-tu?”
“1843. E-Et vous?”
Canada hums as he sits down on the first bed, France sitting opposite him at the same time, and the both of them look around awkwardly.
“Ce monde est étrange…” France muses, and Canada nods fervently in agreement. He suddenly feels ridiculous doing it, but the dramatic gesture makes France smile a bit.
“You have not changed much at all…” he murmurs softly, and Canada is taken aback.
“Y-You speak English?”
France quirks an eyebrow and responds, “Of course. I am more surprised that you do.”
Canada is about to protest that, because he is obviously more likely to speak English than France is, but then he remembers that France has no idea that he is an English colony now, and so he resigns himself to shrugging it off.
Another silence falls between them, but this time it feels less awkward. Canada uses the moment to take another close look at France, and he is embarrassed to realize that he is quite handsome, even in clothing that would, in this decade, belong in a museum. Unlike the France that Canada knows, there is something innocent and childish in this boy’s face, and it’s incredibly alluring.
He flushes when he realizes where his thoughts are going, and France does not miss this.
“Allez-vous bien?” he asks, obviously concerned.
“Je… Je me sens fatigué…”
It is not until Canada says it aloud that he realizes he is very tired, and France nods quickly in agreement.
“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?”
Canada feels a blush spread to the tips of his ears and down his neck, and France laughs at the reaction, pulling off his shirt and slipping under the sheets of the bed, smiling and patting the spot beside him. That’s when Canada realizes France meant just sleeping, and if possible his blush gets even worse as he strips down to his bare chest as well and joins the other in slumber.
For the next few days, France and Canada find themselves spending a lot of time together. They are under house arrest during meeting times, and soon for convenience England moves into America’s room, leaving the two of them together every night as well. France seems pleased with having another French-speaking, time traveling nation bunking with him.
Canada isn’t quite sure how he feels about it. For the most part it’s nice, but then there are the frequent reminders that this is not the France that Canada is used to being with. He does not have the seemingly infinite wisdom Canada remembers from his childhood, nor does he have the perverse personality quirks that are so much of the reason why England cannot stand him. But every there, Canada feels like something is wrong; he’ll catch France’s gaze linger on him as he’s changing, or lounging, but when he looks up France is looking away, his fair skin dusted pink. It’s unnatural and out of place, especially given that this is France, but Canada is too timid to ask about it.
And he doesn’t have to, because a few nights after Canada moves in, after the lights (those creepy, too bright insane switch controlled lights) go out, France murmurs into the darkness,
“Canada… es-tu catholique?”
And then realization strikes Canada suddenly. Why France is so inhibited, so shy; if he is from the 1600s, the Enlightenment has not yet occurred for him, and perhaps he is still held tightly under Catholicism’s hold.
Canada replies by humming, speaking softly, “J-Je ne sais pas…”
France turns to look up and the ceiling, his voice dropping even lower.
“Sometimes, I think about boys.”
Canada notices that he’s lapsed into English, and wonders if perhaps the admission is too horrible for him to say in French. He always did take pride in his mother tongue.
“So do I,” Canada confesses softly.
France looks at him, even in the dark of night this is easy to tell, and Canada blushes.
“I-It’s natural, isn’t it?” he continues. “Most of the people we know are males, and… affairs with humans can be messy…”
They are both thinking of the same person, Canada knows, and he wonders if it’s worth regretting what he’s said. France does not say anything for a long, long while, and when he finally does it’s simply, “Bonne nuit.”
The next night Canada lays awake in bed, wondering how long he is going to remain in this time. England is working on figuring out a way for him to get home, he is well aware, and he’s not about to rush him but the longer he is in the 21st century the stranger and stranger it becomes. He is becoming incredibly tempted to sneak out and find a nation who would let him access a book on his country, because there is a strange pull getting stronger with each passing day that is connecting him to the modern-day Canada. He’s partially intrigued by it, and yet still a bigger part of him is scared of it. Canada wants to get home.
In the back of his mind, though, he is distracting himself from these thoughts by thinking of France. That entire day he could not help but relive the previous night’s conversation, wondering why it was that France had confessed that to Canada at all.
“H-Have you ever… slept with another man?”
Canada gulps, shaking his head in the darkness. “H-Have you…?”
“Almost,” France admits shyly.”With Spain, but both of us… could not go through with it.”
Canada hums in acknowledgement, his mind abuzz. Lost in thought, he is caught unaware by his own voice, “Do… would you like to?”
He hears France inhale sharply, and finds that he his holding his breath waiting for a response.
Canada’s body moves on its own; his legs kick the sheets away, his arms pin France down when he reaches the other’s bed, and his mouth covers the other’s none too bashfully, lips moving on their own to elicit a surprised, delighted moan from France.
And this is when Canada realizes how desperately he has always wanted this, always wanted France. How futile it seemed before, in his own time, to want France when the other would never be able to see him as anything more than a son, a brother if he was lucky. How easy it is now, when France knows so little of him, to push the other down pepper his lips all over the other’s visible skin, the darkness unable to hide their matching blushes.
“C-Canada…” France murmurs, and he sits up.
He shakes his head, and in the faint light coming in through the window, Canada can make out a smile, sheepish and excited, on the other’s face. It puts him more at ease, too, and he pulls off his nightshirt. France is watching, he can tell, and suddenly he can see the France he knows in this smaller body. Especially when his long, nimble fingers stroke over Canada’s bare chest.
“E-Et tu…” Canada commands quickly, and France is quick to comply. Canada shifts nervously, and then he feels something brush against his leg and his heart skips a beat, then two.
France picks up on Canada’s sudden moment of hesitance with a flustered laugh, leaving soft kisses upon Canada’s chest.
“Tu est très mignon.”
Canada makes a soft noise, protesting, and France tries again, “Très beau?”
“C-C’est mieux…” Canada murmurs, letting France indulge in his skin for a moment longer before taking the other’s lips with his own again.
Their trousers follow quickly after their shirts, and their underwear after that, until they are two teenaged bodies pressed together, naked.
Canada wraps his hand tentatively around France’s shaft, his own shuddering when the other gasps wantonly, looking up at him with hazy eyes. He curls his lips into a smile, and Canada is encouraged, so he starts to pump his hand.
Then France grips him in the same manner, and a shiver runs up and down Canada’s spine so powerful his body turns to jelly and he almost collapses onto the other. Canada grits his teeth, steeling himself and keeping it up.
They explore each other’s bodies. Every touch elicits a new noise, and Canada starts to catalogue them in his mind, wondering if France is doing the same for him.
Canada brushes his fingers along the inside of France’s thigh, and the other laughs breathlessly; France flicks his thumb over the tip of Canada’s shaft and it shakes him so hard he has to bite on his lip so the nations next door won’t hear.
It starts off as slow as it could with two physically young and very hormonal boys going at it, but as the moans become more breathless and the reactions more jerky, their hands move faster and faster. France, who has moved on to using two hands, brings Canada to his climax first. Then, as Canada is trying not to slump over he places an open palm above the other’s curled one and helps Canada to finish him, too, pulling him in for a fierce clash of their teeth as he cums between their bodies.
Canada rolls off of the other and nestles beside him, shame aside, their hot, heavy breaths mingling in the air between them.
“ Comment était-ce?”
France smiles, his eyes already closing despite his best efforts to keep them open, and replies in a breathless whisper, “Je l'ai aimé.”
Canada smiles. Before he can say anything else, France adds even more softly, “Je t’aime.”
Finger’s brush in France’s hair as Canada tries to find it in him to answer, but by the time he finally musters the courage to admit, “Je t’aime aussi,”France is already asleep.
Canada pecks the other’s lips chastely, shuffles closer to his body for warmth, and follows him to sleep without a care on his mind.
Notes: To the requester, I hope this is something along the lines of what you were thinking of. To everyone who reads this, I hope you enjoyed it, and a Happy Holidays to you all regardless of what you celebrate! ♥