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The first time Francis had kissed him he had been only about the age that was equivalent years, for a nation, to a human's sixteen. Canada was sure, to this day, that he had only done it to irritate England. Not that England was anywhere near the room they were in, but he somehow managed to know everything that went on anyway. He had once, privately, told a young Canada that it was because of his fairies. That they could see what went on when he was away and report it back to him. Canada had just about stopped believing in this—surely it was just a tale to make him behave while England was away on trips?

Still, he had some way of knowing. Whether he called it his “fairies” or, whether it was just some servant he set to watch Matthew carefully, he always found out if Canada decided to get up to any shenanigans. Not that Canada was really the kind to get up to shenanigans, but even so rule-abiding a boy as he could sometimes, for instance, accidentally spill a glass of wine all over England's newly laundered shirts, and then frantically attempt to bury them under the apple tree, in the vain hope that his very existence would once again be forgotten, allowing him to escape the older nation's wrath when it was time to hand out blame.

Matthew had, on that fateful day of not only his first kiss with Francis but his first kiss in general, been sitting at his desk writing a letter. To this day he could not remember exactly who he had been writing, although it was likely either South Italy or one of England's authors who he had struck up an unlikely friendship with. He had been swiping ineffectually at an ink smear near the bottom of the page when two masculine arms covered in draping white sleeves had encircled his chest. Twisting around to see who it was (it could not have been England, who wasn't due back for hours yet, and who besides, had smaller hands with short fingers with blunt, square nails, completely unlike the slim, elegant mystery hands with long tapering fingers that had come to rest on Canada's abdomen) he had he turned his face and body to the left just in time to meet... Francis's lips.

The kiss was nothing at all like the hearty, yet platonic brotherly kisses America had slopped on Canada's lips in greeting or farewell, which was the only other kisses Canada had experienced to compare it to. The kisses Francis had given him when Canada had been under his care were barely remembered, if at all. England only ever kissed Canada's blonde head when he was absolutely sure the boy was deep in slumber, and Canada had no fairies to report this to him, only Kumajirou, who was decidedly less than interested in what people other than his master did.

First Canada felt the rough tickling sensation of France's stubble rubbing against his face. And then they were kissing, or rather, he was being kissed, because he was in too much shock to respond. Wide-eyed, he sat there, frozen, as France gently and lovingly worked his tongue at him. Well, it was doing nothing for Canada, but he smirked at the thought of how England would react when word, however sent, got back to him. None of the blame would lay on Canada; he was just such a sweet passive timid creature that of course he couldn't be expected to fight back. No one even remembered his name, him at all. So he reached one hand up and grabbed the collar of France's expensive shirt, yanking and pulling him onto the chair and on top of Canada's lap.

Now it was France's turn to be surprised. Startled, he blinked in astonishment at Canada's aggressiveness, before finally curving his lips up into a wicked smile. Canada promptly wiped out that smile by attempting to jam his tongue as far down France's throat as possible. It was really quite annoying. Even France, if he had expected Canada to succumb to his charms, had apparently anticipated him to react like some shy, blushing maid.

Giving in the the pulse of anger he felt at the thought, he slowly, coyly crept one hand into France's hair, feeling the texture. It was thick and heavy, uxorious to the touch. He gloried in the feel of it wound around his fingers for a few moments, and then yanked. Hard.

France yelped, breaking the kiss.

“Non, Matthieu, not so rough.” he whined.

Canada wanted to slap him, but he didn't quite dare, so instead he simply stammered out an apology.
“Sorry. I-I must have gotten carried away.” and looked down at the ground, before shoving France off his lap and darting out of the room.

After he left and the door had slammed behind him, France sat on that hard wooden floor for several minutes, looking dazed and rumpled. Finally, he seemed to shake himself out of it and began crawling around the floor in earnest, searching for the buttons that had flown off his shirt when Canada had put pressure on it. Eventually he found them. And he hadn't even gotten his stockings dirty, thanks to the disturbing cleanliness of England's floors.

Musingly, he stared at the two little cobalt glass buttons. He still had trouble believing his little Canada had ripped them from his shirt. He shook his head in amusement and dropped the buttons into his pocket, heading off to find a looking glass to make himself more presentable for when England finally arrived. He would simply mention, casually, if England's eye turned to his poor beleaguered shirt, that missing buttons were all the rage these days. France chuckled. England was so gullible when it came to la mode, it was almost charming. He still would believe anything France did was the in thing, the only thing worth imitating.

And of course, it was.