quebec {canada/france}
Title: Quebec
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing: Franada
Rating: PG
Warnings: French parts. May translate it into french later on.
A/N: Because Canada's pairings are so cute~ I might write a north america twins fic about the war of 1812 because of it's anniversary.
Summary: Francis likes going to Quebec City.
Francis liked strolling down the streets of Quebec City, admiring the buildings, laughing at the Chateau Frontenac, conversing to the people in ‘Quebecois’, a new, Quebec version of French. He enjoyed buying pastries and drinking some of the wine (but never as good as the one back home, he told himself), lounging out his balcony, enjoying the cold, crisp air that even touched him in late May. He liked the ferry rides to the other side, he liked the museums (even if they had English tours, god), and he liked their appreciation for their history, with large statues outside the parliament buildings of all the important people.
He has been to Montreal, too, but there’s just something better with Quebec City. He has never been out of Quebec (okay, once, to check out New Brunswick, because it was supposedly bilingual there), and he has no intention to going to Toronto or Ontario - or Upper Canada, where all the English went when they made the first two provinces. He hasn’t even been to Ottawa, which sits in the middle of Quebec and Ontario. The tourists are one of those reasons, but also the English is, too.
It brings out memories that Francis doesn’t want to remember. Wars over countries with that slob Arthur, and then that annoying Alfred. No, Francis likes to stay in Quebec.
Matthew never comes to him when he visits. He guesses that that would be normal - Canada must be very busy as a country, being the second largest in the world. Francis just wishes that he could see his little colony once, but if anything, it would be just for a few minutes before he’d have to go run around again. Francis doesn’t mind, the Quebecois ladies are always enough to keep him happy.
It’s when he’s strolling near the fields of Abraham (again, not a good memory) that he’s tapped on the shoulder. He looks around and there Matthew stands, his cheeks rosy and his glasses pushed up farther on the bridge of his nose. It’s amazing - he isn’t actually carrying that polar bear, like usual. He looks more serious, with the bags under his eyes and the paleness to his skin.
“Are you okay?” Francis asks, checking Matthew’s temperature. The younger nation nods, letting out a small cough but smiling nonetheless.
“My great lakes are a little sick these days, is all. I’ll be back to normal after a few days,” Matthew replies, brushing his long, wavy locks from out of his hair. “It would be nice if Alfred didn’t push himself into my personal life so much, but it’s okay.” He grabs Francis’ hand. “Come on, I’ll treat you for dinner.” Matthew’s smile makes Francis stop worrying for a few minutes, and he follows, reminding himself to talk to Alfred before he leaves Quebec.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew says when they’ve finally gotten a seat at a restaurant near the Fleuve St. Laurent. Francis looks up from the menu to raise an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. “I knew you were here many times before today. I was just so busy; my government has been very serious these days, with all these new ideas that don’t really work… I wanted to meet up with you, but I couldn’t. Je crois que je te dois quelquechose pour cela.”
Francis opens his eyes at the Quebecois. It’s hardened, not like the Quebecois he hears from the girls on the streets or the people in New Brunswick (Nouveau Brunswick). Nor does it sound like the French Francis had taught him those years before, when he had first settled and taken Canada as ‘Nouvelle-France’. It’s harder, choppier, and he realizes why: it’s a combination of different French from such a large country. From the Newfoundland accent to the small Alberta twang, all thrown in there, with the small smoothness used in Quebec.
It isn’t Quebecois - it’s Canadian French. And oddly, Francis finds it perfect for the younger country.
« C’est d’accord, je pensais que tu n’aurais pas le temps. Tu es un pays. » Francis answers, trying his best not to compare the two accents. Matthew smiles and Francis notices the blush appear at the tops of his cheeks. Francis and Matthew keep up a good conversation in a medley of French, Quebecois, Canadian French and English, drinking up the good wine (but not as good as French wine) and meat pastries supposedly well-known in Quebec.
They walk to the water front, leaning against the rail, watching the final ferries go across the water. Francis turns and sees the brightness in Matthew’s face come back, the shine in his eyes with the pretty lights that lit up old Quebec.
“Matthew,” Francis calls. Mathew turns his head, interested. France gently touches Matthew’s chin, moving his hands up his jawline, before leaning in and kissing him sweetly. Matthew kisses back automatically and Francis’ heart beats just a little bit faster.
« J’attendais pour cela, » Matthew says, a cute smile on his face. France rolls his eyes, pulling him in for another kiss.
“Let’s just work on your accent first.”
--
end.
a/n: I've been to Quebec City and Montreal. There's a reason why we've been to Quebec city more.
a/n1: Yes, I do read some manga and watch some anime. I only like Hetalia though.
translations: Je crois que je te dois quelquechose pour cela. - I believe I owe you something for that.
C’est d’accord, je pensais que tu n’aurais pas le temps. Tu es un pays. - It's fine, I thought you wouldn't have the time. You are a country.
J’attendais pour cela, - I was waiting for that (roughly. It's more like I waited for that.)
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing: Franada
Rating: PG
Warnings: French parts. May translate it into french later on.
A/N: Because Canada's pairings are so cute~ I might write a north america twins fic about the war of 1812 because of it's anniversary.
Summary: Francis likes going to Quebec City.
Francis liked strolling down the streets of Quebec City, admiring the buildings, laughing at the Chateau Frontenac, conversing to the people in ‘Quebecois’, a new, Quebec version of French. He enjoyed buying pastries and drinking some of the wine (but never as good as the one back home, he told himself), lounging out his balcony, enjoying the cold, crisp air that even touched him in late May. He liked the ferry rides to the other side, he liked the museums (even if they had English tours, god), and he liked their appreciation for their history, with large statues outside the parliament buildings of all the important people.
He has been to Montreal, too, but there’s just something better with Quebec City. He has never been out of Quebec (okay, once, to check out New Brunswick, because it was supposedly bilingual there), and he has no intention to going to Toronto or Ontario - or Upper Canada, where all the English went when they made the first two provinces. He hasn’t even been to Ottawa, which sits in the middle of Quebec and Ontario. The tourists are one of those reasons, but also the English is, too.
It brings out memories that Francis doesn’t want to remember. Wars over countries with that slob Arthur, and then that annoying Alfred. No, Francis likes to stay in Quebec.
Matthew never comes to him when he visits. He guesses that that would be normal - Canada must be very busy as a country, being the second largest in the world. Francis just wishes that he could see his little colony once, but if anything, it would be just for a few minutes before he’d have to go run around again. Francis doesn’t mind, the Quebecois ladies are always enough to keep him happy.
It’s when he’s strolling near the fields of Abraham (again, not a good memory) that he’s tapped on the shoulder. He looks around and there Matthew stands, his cheeks rosy and his glasses pushed up farther on the bridge of his nose. It’s amazing - he isn’t actually carrying that polar bear, like usual. He looks more serious, with the bags under his eyes and the paleness to his skin.
“Are you okay?” Francis asks, checking Matthew’s temperature. The younger nation nods, letting out a small cough but smiling nonetheless.
“My great lakes are a little sick these days, is all. I’ll be back to normal after a few days,” Matthew replies, brushing his long, wavy locks from out of his hair. “It would be nice if Alfred didn’t push himself into my personal life so much, but it’s okay.” He grabs Francis’ hand. “Come on, I’ll treat you for dinner.” Matthew’s smile makes Francis stop worrying for a few minutes, and he follows, reminding himself to talk to Alfred before he leaves Quebec.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew says when they’ve finally gotten a seat at a restaurant near the Fleuve St. Laurent. Francis looks up from the menu to raise an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. “I knew you were here many times before today. I was just so busy; my government has been very serious these days, with all these new ideas that don’t really work… I wanted to meet up with you, but I couldn’t. Je crois que je te dois quelquechose pour cela.”
Francis opens his eyes at the Quebecois. It’s hardened, not like the Quebecois he hears from the girls on the streets or the people in New Brunswick (Nouveau Brunswick). Nor does it sound like the French Francis had taught him those years before, when he had first settled and taken Canada as ‘Nouvelle-France’. It’s harder, choppier, and he realizes why: it’s a combination of different French from such a large country. From the Newfoundland accent to the small Alberta twang, all thrown in there, with the small smoothness used in Quebec.
It isn’t Quebecois - it’s Canadian French. And oddly, Francis finds it perfect for the younger country.
« C’est d’accord, je pensais que tu n’aurais pas le temps. Tu es un pays. » Francis answers, trying his best not to compare the two accents. Matthew smiles and Francis notices the blush appear at the tops of his cheeks. Francis and Matthew keep up a good conversation in a medley of French, Quebecois, Canadian French and English, drinking up the good wine (but not as good as French wine) and meat pastries supposedly well-known in Quebec.
They walk to the water front, leaning against the rail, watching the final ferries go across the water. Francis turns and sees the brightness in Matthew’s face come back, the shine in his eyes with the pretty lights that lit up old Quebec.
“Matthew,” Francis calls. Mathew turns his head, interested. France gently touches Matthew’s chin, moving his hands up his jawline, before leaning in and kissing him sweetly. Matthew kisses back automatically and Francis’ heart beats just a little bit faster.
« J’attendais pour cela, » Matthew says, a cute smile on his face. France rolls his eyes, pulling him in for another kiss.
“Let’s just work on your accent first.”
--
end.
a/n: I've been to Quebec City and Montreal. There's a reason why we've been to Quebec city more.
a/n1: Yes, I do read some manga and watch some anime. I only like Hetalia though.
translations: Je crois que je te dois quelquechose pour cela. - I believe I owe you something for that.
C’est d’accord, je pensais que tu n’aurais pas le temps. Tu es un pays. - It's fine, I thought you wouldn't have the time. You are a country.
J’attendais pour cela, - I was waiting for that (roughly. It's more like I waited for that.)