You are a young, human girl visiting France. You had always wanted to go visit the fabled country, although you were afraid of what you might find. You were harassed by drunk men at your work, and had wanted to get away for awhile, then taking yourself to France.
While you are on your way to your hotel, finding yourself a little bit lost, you see a man beyond describing. He's just so beautiful, if you could call a man beautiful, that is.
The man turns around, and when he lays his eyes on you, he comes towards you. You feel the need to run, but your mind tells you it will be alright, so you stay put. He bows slightly, taking your hand in his, and kissing the top.
“Mon nom est Francis. Parlez vous Francais, mademoiselle?” he asked, looking into your bright, [eye color] eyes. The look on your face was a mix of confusion and nervousness, as you tried to comprehend his excellent French. You could not pull your hand away as you spoke, your face a dark pink, “U-um...No speak French, s-sir.”
The man who, to what you understood of his French, called himself Francis, stood up, letting your hand drop, “Ah, terribly sorry, ma cherie. I was not aware you were new here. You are a young lady who should not be wandering around lost, do you need my assistance?” You crinkled the crumpled paper in your other hand, asking yourself if you should show it to him.
While you were in thought, he peeked over your shoulder, looking at the address written on it, “[your street name], huh? That’s far away, and it’s getting late.” Francis placed a warm hand on your shoulder, soothing you, “Would you like to stay with me for the night, ma cherie? In the morning, I can walk you to your destination.” You swallowed, remembering your mothers words about not going with strangers, no matter what they offered you, but that was when you were a child. You were fully grown now, so why were you remembering the past? You nodded, a small smile coming to your lips in the small hope of being able to stay with this man longer, “Yes, that would be great. Merci!” Francis smiled, hooking arms with you, bringing you very close to him. You looked away, thinking of what his place would be like, letting him guide you through the empty streets, the sunset casting a glow on the stone walkways.
“We’re here.” Francis nudged you softly, smiling, opening the door with his free arm. The house he claimed was his was not large enough to call a mansion, but it was compared to the house you had back home. You admired the art and plants lining the walls, and the nice choice of furniture.
“You can go upstairs and change into your clothes, if you have a spare, or you can wear some of mine or my younger brother’s. I will make us a great French cuisine while you are changing.” Francis pointed upstairs before walking into the kitchen.
You walked up the stairs, and found a small hallway with lots of doors lining the walls. You didn’t know which room was Francis’ or his little brother’s, so you opened the first one on the right.
Ducking your head as to not hit it, you saw the room really was a child’s room. The walls were painted with flowers and trees, as was much of the furniture. A small bed that was only about half of your size stood in the corner of the room, a dresser painted yellow next to it. You approached the dresser, as it had piqued your interest with the photographs on top. The pictures were all of Francis and a young boy with long hair, and a shade of hair a little bit darker than his. All of the pictures were of them playing, except one at the end. The one at the end had the little boy from all the other photos, with another child, of the same hair color, but his hair was shorter.
After looking at the photo’s for a little bit, you decided you should change. With a little bit of strength, you pulled the top drawer open. The clothes in the drawer were neatly folded, and the majority of them were white tunics. You pulled one of the folded tunics out, gazing in wonder at the size. It only went from your chest to your waist, and would not be fitting you anytime soon. As you wondered what kind of younger brother would wear such small clothing, you folded the tunic back up, and closed the drawer. You bent down to the third drawer, pulling it open with ease. The tunics were much fancier than the plain white ones in the first drawer. The clothes were colors varying from blue to yellow to pink. You grabbed a dark blue one, holding it up to yourself. It looked like it would fit you, or be a little bit too big, but you decided to risk it, by changing into the dark blue tunic.
You flattened the ruffles of the tunic. It was practically a dress on you! The tunic looked like something you might’ve worn in the Renaissance. You didn’t mind, because the tunic felt nice, like it was made from the finest silk. You closed the drawer, gathered your clothes, and left, starting down the stairs.
As you started down the stairs, you met face-to-face with Francis. You took a step back, apologizing. He smiled at you, and did not seem mad, “It’s alright. Matthieu’s clothes look good on you. I was worried because you were taking a while, but you seem fine. I also came because I forgot my manners. I never asked you your name, madame.” That realization came to you, “O-oh, it’s my fault. My name is [your name]. And thank you.” Francis smiled at your politeness, “I have supper all set out already, so if I may,” He went to the bottom of the stairs, escorting you to the dining room.
The table was covered in French foods you had only heard of, let alone imagine you’d be able to see them. Francis pulled a chair out for you, letting you sit down, before taking a seat next to you. He smiled, seeing you gape at the food that lay before you, “Please, eat to your fill. I can understand you must be hungry.”
Acting with what you thought was ‘lady-like’ you started eating slowly, despite your hunger. Francis laughed quietly, “May I ask you something, [your name]?” You put a hand over your mouth, finishing chewing, as you nodded.
“If I were a country, how would you react if you found out just now?” He asked, shuffling to a different position on his chair. You set your fork down, clearing your throat, and moving yourself so you were facing him, “Well, I’m not sure. All the people back where I live say the countries are evil and mean. You are a nice person and all, so if all the other countries are like you, I don’t understand why people hate you so much. If you were a country, I suppose I wouldn’t mind, if you still had the same personality.”
Francis gave you a small smile, and he looked like he was about to cry. He stood up, and did something you’d never even imagine he’d do: hug you. He was speaking over your shoulder, still embracing you, but you could still hear him.
“Thank you. I always tried to help people on the streets, but whenever I did, they would tell me to leave and do something else than help the people I’d abandoned because I was a country. You are the first person to tell me otherwise, even if it wasn’t when we first met.”
You placed your hands on his back, returning the hug. You nuzzled your face into part of his purple cape, your speech barely audible, “I fell in love with you when I first saw you, and even more this whole day. And now, more than I thought I could ever love. I love you so much, even if you are a country.”
“Thank you, [your name], and I love you too.” Francis, who happened to be the country France, hugged you tighter.