conjure_lass: (Hetalia: Little France)
[personal profile] conjure_lass
Title: Traveling November
Author/Artist: [ profile] conjuer_lass
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Fr/US
Rating: G to NC-17
Warnings: Some sexings, mindless fluff, no angst whatsoever.
Summary: Traveling through the month of November, these two nations are a suprisingly normal couple.
Author's Note: I liked writing this piece. I only betaed it by myself (again) and it was written all in one day, but I really like the feel of it. I hope you will too.

November 1st
All Saints Day

It was a quiet day in Paris.

Francis reclined lazily in his bedroom doorway, sipping coffee and watching the dust motes dance in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windowpanes. A draft blew his hair across his eyes, drawing his attention to the set of double doors across the room. They were wide open, their lace curtains growing fat in the chilly November breeze, a human-shaped shadow inching across the floor as the sun rose higher.

“It’s so quiet,” Alfred whispered as Francis padded out onto the small balcony. The younger nation sat with his legs dangling through the balusters of the handrail, swinging his feet childishly in the open air. He leaned back into Francis’ chest when he curled up behind him, blue eyes unfocused and sleepy.

“Mmmm,” Francis murmured noncommittally, reaching around Alfred’s chest to offer him a sip of coffee while trying to ignore the cold that seeped through the fabric of his bathrobe. “It is a holiday. Everyone is either at church or still in their beds.”

Shifting his weight to get more comfortable, Francis felt the box that he’d put in his pocket earlier jab against his hip. Ah, he’d almost forgotten! Reaching in, he pulled out a blue velvet box, lifting its lid to reveal a long silver chain with a pendant dangling at the bottom.

It slipped easily over Alfred’s head, the younger blond reaching for it instantly to bring it to his face for close inspection.

“Saint Alfred the Great,” he said softly, rubbing his fingers over the picture a few times, smiling that sweet, crooked grin that made Francis’ heart purr.

“It suits you.”

November 2nd
All Souls Day

A single rose floated down the Seine.

No matter how far away he was, no matter what other obligations he might have had, no matter if it was 3am or 11pm, he always traveled to Rouen before the clock struck midnight. Always. Usually alone. Not so this time.

Alfred stood silent beside him, another unusual occurrence, his fingers brushing in a comforting gesture against Francis own. He seemed at a loss for words, shifting from one foot to the other, watching the waves lap at the bank. Francis noticed all this with a strange sense of detachment, as though he were viewing a photograph or a somber painting. No matter how many grains of sand passed through the hourglass of life, this one wound would never fully heal.

“Wait,” Alfred said suddenly, eyebrows coming together as he tugged at Francis’ fingers to get his attention. “She’s a saint, right? Why didn’t we do this yesterday?”

Francis blinked, the sounds of Rouen all about him, numbly casting his gaze to the waterlogged rose still drifting down the river. A saint? Francis let his mind wander to the past, to the bold young woman with hair the color of barley plants in the summertime and a fantastic right uppercut. To the unbridled woman made of tears and failures and glorious triumphs, to her tender voice that whispered to him across the centuries in his dreams.

He smiled, resting his chin against Alfred’s shoulder to kiss his cheek.

“My Jeanne was only a woman to me.”

November 19th

“You seem sad.”

Francis turned from his place at Alfred’s desk where he’d been penning a letter to his Prime Minister, cocking his head to the side curiously.

“What makes you say that, mon rêveur,” he said, laying down his pen to take the glass of water that Alfred offered. The younger nation shrugged, sliding a stool over to glance at Francis’ half-finished letter. Moments passed while he perused its content, obviously not understanding a word, before angrily blowing a stray lock of hair from his eyes.

“I can't read any of that,” he complained, pointing to the paper. “Those French lessons you paid for aren’t working!”

Chuckling softly, Francis kissed away Alfred’s pout, running his index finger down the bridge of his nose. “You have only been at it two months, Alfred. Some people work their whole lives to speak perfect française! I, of course, have long since mastered the language…”

Francis turned back to his work, still conscious of Alfred’s lingering gaze that had moved up from the paper to himself. It was hardly a bother though; he actually liked the feeling of someone staring at him so intently. And why shouldn’t they? He was beautiful! There was no shame in being transfixed by something breathtaking.

“I heard you sighing last night.”


“You sighed. That’s how I know you’re down.”


“I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up though!” Alfred brightened, taking back both glasses of water and heading towards the kitchen.

Francis sat, puzzled, listening to the sound of his young lover rummaging around in the next room, banging this way and that, generally making all the noise he always did. Alfred did nothing quietly. But what could this be about? True, Francis been a little homesick in the last day or two, but he’d hardly felt that anyone could tell. He just hated being away from home this time of year…there was so much going on that he didn’t like to miss! But there was business to attend to, and staying with Amérique was hardly an inconvenience.

“Close your eyes,” Alfred demanded suddenly from the doorway, his head peeking out, Nantucket bobbing cheerfully. Francis complied with a chuckle, even going so far as to put his hands over his eyes and smiling at the pleased laugh he earned in return.

“Okay, open them.”

And he did, coming face to label with one of the most lovely, shapely, perfect bottles of Beaujolais nouveau he had ever seen. Gaping up at Alfred, who was practically beaming with pride, Francis could have squealed with joy. Unbelievable! Alfred F. Jones, the man whom everyone though of as completely self-absorbed, had somehow managed to do something completely thoughtful.

“How did you know?” he studied the colorful label, watching the dark liquid splash around in the bottle.

“Well, I remembered you talking about some big Frenchy wine thing last year in November…so I googled it. This is what I came up with. Wanna open it? I had to call in some favors to get it on such short notice.” He held out a corkscrew and wineglasses with an almost shy expression, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“You don’t even like wine that much, mon coeur.”

“I just don’t understand why it doesn’t taste like grapes!”

Francis popped the cork.

November 26th

Francis had been cooking all day.

Well…that wasn’t exactly true. Two hours of it had been spent going through the seemingly endless dusty cookbooks in Alfred’s attic trying to figure out what exactly Americans ate for Thanksgiving dinner. He’d had a general idea, but things like sweet potatoes weren’t really something that he’d ever made in great abundance.

These would be the most delicious that Alfred had ever had.

Alfred, the man in question, was currently stuck in traffic. Francis knew this because he’d called him an hour ago to wish him a happy Thanksgiving. Little did Alfred know that instead of coming home to an empty house; Francis had secretly concocted an elaborate set of lies to surprise him with a perfect dinner and an even more perfect dinner companion.

Devilishly clever, even if he did say so himself…which he did.

The front door creaked opened as Francis was setting the turkey on the table, congratulating himself on its absolutely perfect aroma and appearance with another glass of wine. Perking up, he quickly pulled off his apron and went into the hall, stopping in the doorway to gape at the somewhat disheveled state the younger nation was in.

Rain cascaded from Alfred’s clothes, hair plastered wetly against his scalp, shoes making terrible squishing noises as he toed them off into the closet with a defeated sigh. He looked miserable…and a little sad. Francis would have mentioned that if he hadn’t been spotted first, Alfred’s frown disappearing instantly as he bounded over to pull him into a bone-crushing hug.

“Are you surprised?” Francis asked, shivering at the feel of wet clothes pressing against his skin. “Did you like my little feint?”

“I’m not sure what that means, but whatever it is, I like it!” Alfred laughed, pulling away to peel his suit jacket off his arms. He looked up from unbuttoning his shirt, eyes suddenly very serious. “You’d told me you had to go home. I thought I’d be spending Thanksgiving alone again.”

Again? Francis blinked, finding it strange (and a little heartbreaking) that such a great nation, one that tried to give so much to so many, should spend a holiday that was about giving thanks all by himself. Apparently more than once. Shaking his head, Francis brushed off the depressing thought with a smile. “It could be worse…you could be spending it with Angleterre’s cooking!”

Alfred’s nose wrinkled, mouth screwing up, tongue coming out to poke between his teeth.

“I think I’d rather spend it alone.”

November 30th

Dulles International Airport was quiet this time of night.

And it was for this reason that he’d covered Alfred’s mouth, pushing him belly-first across the countertop of the coffee shop they’d stumbled upon in their haste to find some privacy. They’d actually been rather amazed to find the steel gates that kept people from going inside after hours partially ajar, and Francis in particular thanked whatever deity kept looking out for his admittedly perverted interests.

Foreplay had been kept to a minimum, Alfred not wanting it and Francis not bothering, both men preferring to get straight to the “fun parts” as Alfred put it. The younger nation had practically begged to bottom for once, none of his usual grousing (and subsequent surrending) as he allowed himself to be fucked firmly into the counter. Something about wanting some aches to keep him company when he was alone, and Francis was simply too much of a gentleman to refuse such a request.

“Oh god, Francis, come on, come on,” Alfred repeated, panting, laying his forehead against his arm, biting at the flesh to keep himself from crying out and alerting people to their presence. He was close; Francis could feel it in the muscles around his cock tightening and the way Alfred’s muffled moans were taking on that distinct note of urgency. Or at least Francis certainly hoped so…because the perfect tightness of Alfred’s body combined with the excitement of possibly being caught was definitely affecting his stamina.

Deciding not to chance it, Francis reached down to grasp Alfred’s cock, giving it a few firm strokes before finding his fingers sticky with spend and the air filled with wanton moans and sharp curses. Quite the symphony. But this time his lover’s climax was not enough to induce his own. What was enough, however, was Alfred turning slightly, biting down on his lip and pushing back against Francis’ thrusts with perfect force, intentionally tightening his muscles to draw his orgasm to the surface…and oh mon dieu

All Francis remembered of the next few moments was reaching down blindly with hands and teeth, possessively pulling Alfred against himself as he bit down into the youthful neck, bruising, leaving marks that would have to be explained for a week. And there was pleasure. Mind-numbing pleasure that electrified his entire body and left him ready to collapse, panting into Alfred’s ear even as the other nation chuckled, satisfied and sated.

Neither man moved for long minutes, their breathing slowly returning normal before Francis reluctantly checked his watch, knowing he didn’t have much time before his flight had to leave.

Twenty minutes. Damnation.

Alfred held his hands in place when he tried to pull them away, lacing their fingers and squeezing affectionately, softly, almost tenderly. But he did not meet Francis’ gaze, choosing instead to hide his expression in the shadows as though suddenly overtaken with embarrassment. Endearing. Sweet. Francis often forgot how young Alfred was.

“I hate this part,” Alfred whispered, voice sounding small, not much like his normal boisterous self.

“What…our parting or the cleanup?”

“Shut up and help me wipe off this damn counter.”



1: Beaujolais nouveau is a young wine that is only allowed to be sold one minute after midnight on the third Thursday of November until sometime in December (or until they run out? I don't know really). People have parties to celebrate it arrival all over France and the world apparently.

2: November 1st and 2nd are as many know All Saints Day and All Souls day. All Saints Day is a national holiday in France.

3: Alfred the Great was one of the first great Kings of England. He was eventually made a patron saint of learning. I'm convinced in my headcanon that Alfred is named after Alfred the Great. *laugh* more Hetalia for a few weeks while I work on a GO fic and a Bleach fic. I'm going to miss these boys while I play with others! *sniffles*


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