Shit, France thought. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
He put the first coat he found on and immediately left England’s apartment. He needed to hurry, and for once he was glad about Benoit’s notorious punctuality. He managed to get back to Paris in an hour, and when he finally arrived home there still was no trace of Benoit. He needed a plan quickly. He hoped Benoit didn’t need to see France in person, or he was busted.
Ten minutes after he closed the front door behind him, Benoit finally rang his doorbell. France swore and in his haste to get to the door, dropped one of his favorite vases on the floor.
“Shit!” he swore.
“France? Is everything alright?” someone asked in French from the other side, but what France immediately realized was that it wasn’t Benoit.
“Canada?” he swore out loud as Canada rang his doorbell again.
“I heard you were sick so I came to see how you were… Are you okay? France?”
France wanted to die. He wondered if he should just pretend not being home, but he immediately realized that it wasn’t a good plan at all. What should he do? What should he do? He sighed, cursed himself for what he was going to do, and suddenly opened the door.
To say Canada was shocked would be an understatement. Canada stared at America’s face for a long moment, blinking, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of the water, and then Canada suddenly exclaimed:
“What are you doing here, eh?” Canada started, “I talked to you before I made my way to Europe. How did you manage to get here before me, eh?”
“Canada, I… ehm…” France wanted the earth to open up and eat him whole, for as soon as France said his name, Canada’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“How…” then suddenly he widened his eyes and with shaking voice asked, “You are not America, right?”
“I…!” France wondered how Canada managed to tell, but he didn’t have the time to ask that Canada suddenly made a step backwards, in panic.
“Who are you?” Canada exclaimed, “What is going on? I—!”
“It’s me, France!” suddenly said in his mother-tongue, “Oh, God. Come in!” he grabbed Canada by the shirt and dragged him inside. Canada didn’t complain and just stared at France, ready to pass out.
“A-America? F-France?” Canada was pale, “What is going on?”
France sighed, run a hand through his now short hair and made to talk. As if on cue, someone rang on the doorbell. France swore once more and opened the door. This time it was really Benoit, carrying a black bag full with documents. The young man stared up at him, he was new in the business and so he didn’t know what America looked like, but he knew for a fact that the man that had opened the door to him wasn’t France. He raised an eyebrow and asked:
“Excuse me, but isn’t this Francis Bonnefoy’s house?”
“Of course, it is!” France said with a smile, ignoring Canada’s lament behind him, “But Francis doesn’t feel that well so much now and asked me to open the door. You must be Benoit, right?”
The man’s suspicion suddenly became less, and he nodded at France.
“Yes. I’m here to give him some documents to sign.”
“Of course, of course. I know all about it.” France smiled at Benoit once more, “Give them to me and Francis will sign them in a moment.”
“I need to see him in person.” Benoit tried to complaint.
“He can’t.” France stated, grabbed Benoit’s bag from the young man’s hands and continued, ignoring Benoit’s protests: “He needs to sign all of this papers?”
“O-only those in the green folder, but…!”
“Okay! They’ll be ready in a second!” France exclaimed and shut the door in Benoit’s face. He opened the black bag, took the green folder out and searched around the house for a pen. He had totally forgotten about Canada, and only when the other handed him a pen did France remember that he had another problem to solve.
“America doesn’t talk French and he doesn’t notice me.” Canada said, still looking pale, but less surprised that before. France took the pen and started checking the documents out. “So you must be really France.”
Love me the "American" way [7b/?]
He put the first coat he found on and immediately left England’s apartment. He needed to hurry, and for once he was glad about Benoit’s notorious punctuality. He managed to get back to Paris in an hour, and when he finally arrived home there still was no trace of Benoit. He needed a plan quickly. He hoped Benoit didn’t need to see France in person, or he was busted.
Ten minutes after he closed the front door behind him, Benoit finally rang his doorbell. France swore and in his haste to get to the door, dropped one of his favorite vases on the floor.
“Shit!” he swore.
“France? Is everything alright?” someone asked in French from the other side, but what France immediately realized was that it wasn’t Benoit.
“Canada?” he swore out loud as Canada rang his doorbell again.
“I heard you were sick so I came to see how you were… Are you okay? France?”
France wanted to die. He wondered if he should just pretend not being home, but he immediately realized that it wasn’t a good plan at all. What should he do? What should he do? He sighed, cursed himself for what he was going to do, and suddenly opened the door.
To say Canada was shocked would be an understatement. Canada stared at America’s face for a long moment, blinking, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of the water, and then Canada suddenly exclaimed:
“What are you doing here, eh?” Canada started, “I talked to you before I made my way to Europe. How did you manage to get here before me, eh?”
“Canada, I… ehm…” France wanted the earth to open up and eat him whole, for as soon as France said his name, Canada’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“How…” then suddenly he widened his eyes and with shaking voice asked, “You are not America, right?”
“I…!” France wondered how Canada managed to tell, but he didn’t have the time to ask that Canada suddenly made a step backwards, in panic.
“Who are you?” Canada exclaimed, “What is going on? I—!”
“It’s me, France!” suddenly said in his mother-tongue, “Oh, God. Come in!” he grabbed Canada by the shirt and dragged him inside. Canada didn’t complain and just stared at France, ready to pass out.
“A-America? F-France?” Canada was pale, “What is going on?”
France sighed, run a hand through his now short hair and made to talk. As if on cue, someone rang on the doorbell. France swore once more and opened the door. This time it was really Benoit, carrying a black bag full with documents. The young man stared up at him, he was new in the business and so he didn’t know what America looked like, but he knew for a fact that the man that had opened the door to him wasn’t France. He raised an eyebrow and asked:
“Excuse me, but isn’t this Francis Bonnefoy’s house?”
“Of course, it is!” France said with a smile, ignoring Canada’s lament behind him, “But Francis doesn’t feel that well so much now and asked me to open the door. You must be Benoit, right?”
The man’s suspicion suddenly became less, and he nodded at France.
“Yes. I’m here to give him some documents to sign.”
“Of course, of course. I know all about it.” France smiled at Benoit once more, “Give them to me and Francis will sign them in a moment.”
“I need to see him in person.” Benoit tried to complaint.
“He can’t.” France stated, grabbed Benoit’s bag from the young man’s hands and continued, ignoring Benoit’s protests: “He needs to sign all of this papers?”
“O-only those in the green folder, but…!”
“Okay! They’ll be ready in a second!” France exclaimed and shut the door in Benoit’s face. He opened the black bag, took the green folder out and searched around the house for a pen. He had totally forgotten about Canada, and only when the other handed him a pen did France remember that he had another problem to solve.
“America doesn’t talk French and he doesn’t notice me.” Canada said, still looking pale, but less surprised that before. France took the pen and started checking the documents out. “So you must be really France.”