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1957

"I do not care how practical you think it will be there is no way that I will allow you to bring that dreadful old couch into my gorgeous home."

"Fine, it'll stay in my flat. I'd rather you move there instead of forcing me to cross the Channel to live in your pretentious little mud hole anyway."

"I would rather die than spend the rest of my life living on this dreary little island!"

France huffed, England scoffed, and they both went back to their respective drinks, taking a short break from the argument they had been having for nearly a year now. In all this time there hadn't been one thing that the two had agreed on (other than the obvious mutual understanding that they would go through with the ceremony) a fact that was growing more and more frustrating as time quickly ran out. Well, time couldn't run out all that quickly as there wasn't even really a set date yet, just a vague idea that they would have a summer wedding.

"Bickering again you two?" England cringed at the sound and quickly looked up to see that they were now flanked by two of his brothers, Scotland and Ireland. "Sounds like the honeymoon is over," Scotland chuckled as he slid next to France in order to lean over the bar and flag down the bartender.

"You have to be married to have a honeymoon," Ireland pointed out, plopping down on the stool beside England and grabbing his pint while he waited for his own drink to come. "And these two never had a 'honeymoon phase' to begin with."

"Ah, Liam, Wallace, how good of you to join us," France sighed, oblivious to England's clear discomfort (or at least, choosing to ignore it). "Your brother and I were just having a discussion. Perhaps you two can help us to settle things. Arthur is refusing to get rid of his ugly old couch when we move in together because he believes it is 'practical' and 'comfortable.' I say that we should buy a new one when we get married so that we can have our own new furniture. What do you think?"

"Keep in mind that when he says 'our own new furniture,' what Francis really means is that he plans on getting rid of all of my things to make way for his own," England put in irritably.

The bartender came by and deposited fresh mugs of beer in front of both Scotland and Ireland and the two were quick to guzzle down as much as possible before giving an answer. "I think that Arthur's flat is full of junk," Ireland said at last and offered no other word of advice.

England glared at both his red headed brother and the glass that now sat empty in front of him.

"I think Artie's not the only part of the United Kingdom," Scotland drawled, his heavy lidded green eyes leering intensely at France's pleasant smile. England felt his stomach boil as he watched Scotland place his hand on top of France's, his calloused fingers practically dancing on top of France's well-manicured digits. "Come on Francis, if you really want to marry into the family so badly, then why not tie the knot with someone who knows just how to make you melt."

France responded with an airy titter as he slipped his hand out of Scotland's grasp and quickly made to wrap his fingers around England's tightly clenched fist. "I am sorry Wallace, cher, as much as I would love to restart the Auld Alliance with you, I am afraid that your brother is the only one I intend to marry," France assured before giving England's hands a loving pat and effectively coaxing his fingers out of their tightly coiled state.

"Well, I tried," Scotland shrugged before going back to his drink.

Ireland pinned France and England with a withering look as he raised his mug to his lips and finished off the last drops of beer. "Sickening both of you," he sneered. "The two of you have been downright revolting since your engagement."

France smiled proudly at Ireland's comment before leaning in to give England's cheek a loving peck. His brothers groaned, ordered two more beers and then quickly disbursed at the display.

"He's right you know. Wallace that is," England began as France freed one of his hands to take another sip of his wine. "You will be marrying into the family... that doesn't bother you at all?"

"Arthur, if your terrible performance in bed has not turned me away then your brothers certainly will not."

"What do you mean 'terrible performance'?"

"Mon cher, making love to you is like making love to an overloaded washer machine," France explained wearily. "Sometimes I feel quite motion sick, others I feel certain that you will dislocate my hips."

"Well if I'm so bloody terrible in bed, why do you keep sleeping with me?"

"Because the faces you make when you come are so funny." England watched as France twisted his face, his features contorting into an expression that looked as if he had stubbed his toe while in the midst of suffering from terrible stomach pains.

"You...! Is that why you always laugh after sex?"

France chortled into his drink and England soon felt the fight seep out of him. It had taken them nearly three hundred years to get to a place where they could laugh comfortably again and it felt good to be there.

Things between them had gone south after the deterioration of what they privately called their first marriage and despite their promise not to, they soon found themselves getting swept away in politics once more. Things quickly went from bad to worse after the Seven Years' War had resulted in England acquiring custody of Canada. France had been beyond devastated and England had been beyond cold hearted as he ripped another whimpering baby from France's arms. France soon lost himself in a world of madness and political upheaval and England took the opportunity to proclaim to the world that he had been right about him all along.

Then it happened. The Great Wars, the invasions, the occupation, and France had practically been dead for all of four years thanks to Germany. It was during that time that England found himself lying awake at night remembering. He remembered a long summer where he and France had lived together in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. He remembered France needing him so desperately that he would cling to him at night just to make sure that he didn't go away. He remembered the way his heart had beat quick and slow the first time France had ever told him he loved him and he only realized then that those feelings had never really gone away, they'd simply been lost underneath all the manipulation and bitterness.

So when France proposed to him just a year ago England had said yes, despite the clear knowledge that France had only done so to save his own skin, because he had made France a promise centuries ago and it was time that he made good on it.

Things didn't go smoothly from there, however, because while Arthur had said yes England was forced to say no as his boss instantly rejected the proposed merger of the two countries. Suddenly England found himself in the same situation that he had been in so long ago, but now he knew exactly what he had to do. He went to his bosses and said, in no uncertain terms, that he was going to marry France -- as a person, not a nation -- whether they liked it or not. England supposed that he was fortunate this time around that Elizabeth II, like any woman, was a romantic at heart and quickly gave him her support. France's boss was harder to win over as he was still bitter at the knowledge that there would be no political or financial gain from the union, but in time he agreed and England and France, or rather Arthur and Francis, soon found themselves officially engaged.

Everything should have been perfect, but it wasn't, because France was still sick. He had his good days and his bad. Some days he could barely gather up the strength to get out of bed and others, such as today, he was troubled only by a periodic cough and showed no other symptoms of being unwell.

England watched as France dug through his pockets and patted himself down in search of something before finally pulling out an elegantly carved, silver cigarette case. He pulled out a single stick and held it limply in his fingers. "Do you have a light, mon amor?" France asked as he positioned the fag between his lips.

England smiled to himself, because he didn't mind those terms of endearment anymore. It was a clear sign that France cared for him; a fact that he had thought would never come to be again. When France's original proposal had been rejected by England's bosses, he had thought for certain that the whole idea of marriage would lose its appeal to him. After all, France had made his reluctance abundantly clear during his proposal,
but England supposed it had been his stubborn crusade to see to it that they could be legally wed that had returned him to France's favor. Clearly having England fight for them was all that France had ever wanted and having France love him again was all England could ask for.

He pulled out a match and quickly lit France's cigarette for him. France took a long drag before slowly puffing out an elegant stream of smoke from between his lips. Here they were lounging casually at a bar after the first day of yet another World Conference. The whole room was buzzing, booths were pack, smoke was floating through the air, and chatter was swimming all around them, but England felt as if they were the only two people in the world.

"Fine, I'll give up my couch," he said at last. "But I'm keeping my grandfather clock."

"That noisy old thing?" France huffed, but soon found himself dissolving into a fit of coughs.

England quickly waved for the bartender to get them a glass of water as he quickly plucked France's cigarette from between his fingers and stubbed it out in a nearby ashtray. "There there, love, deep breaths," he instructed just as the barkeep handed France his glass. "You need to quit those things. They can't be good for your condition."

"They relax me," France wheezed before slowly sipping his water.

England shook his head before fishing for his personal, plainer, cigarette case from within his breast pocket and tucking a fag between his own lips. He had just lit the end when he felt France frantically tapping at his shoulder. "Look, there are the boys," he said eagerly, because France was always eager to see America and Canada no matter how many times England had instructed him to contain himself. After all, they weren't supposed to treat them any differently than any other nation, but France had never been willing to fully embrace that idea. "America! Canada! Over here!"

France waved fervently at the two, his chipper tone catching the attention of the entire room, and England watched as the brothers glanced their way before ducking their heads and leaving the bar. Despite the fact that France's gaze was turned away from him, England could still tell that there was hurt flashing in his light blue eyes and his own gut pinged with sympathy.

"Perhaps they didn't see you," England assured, giving his shoulder a pat.

"They looked right at me," France lamented, shoulders slumping morosely as he pouted into his wine.

"Well, maybe they had somewhere to go?" he suggested, his mind trying not to dwell on the fact that both America and Canada had been acting strangely all day and were very obviously avoiding them.

"Maybe we should go talk to them."

"And say what? If they don't want to talk to us, then it's within their rights. They're grown nations."

"It is not right for them to avoid us. After all, we are their-"

England was quick to cut France off, tutting away the secret that they had kept locked away in that old house back in their colonial days. It had been hard for England to turn his back on it, because those few years where they had all lived together as one little family had been the best days of his life, but he knew that they couldn't carry on like that. England was certain that America and Canada would be better off considering themselves to be just like any other nation and had been careful to keep tight lipped about their parentage.

However, while it was difficult for England, it was devastating for France. England still remembered all the times that France had attempted to see America and later Canada during their childhood with offerings of food or clothing or toys and each time England had adamantly turned him away. Once, just a year or two before France's revolution, he had quite literally come to England with tears in his eyes, begging on his hands and knees for just one quick word with his children. England had responded to the scene with a cold sneer and a barked laugh before turning the man away for the last time.

He wished that he could have been less heartless back then, but England had been in a cruel mood in those days. Today he could do no more than offer France a fond touch and a reassuring word when the twins responded to his attempts for affection with hesitance or indifference. "I'll be sure to speak with them about it tonight."

France's eyes lit up at the declaration and England had to resist the urge to groan. "They are staying with you?"

He shook his head. Normally the boys would stay at his flat whenever there was a conference held in London, but this time they had opted to get a hotel. "Alfred invited himself over for dinner," he clarified. "He said he had something he wanted to talk about."

"Well, then if the boys are coming over for dinner, I will have to get to work on cooking something wonderful for them." France quickly downed the rest of his wine and hopped off of his stool, tugging firmly at England's wrist. "Come. We must go shopping. I need to prepare."

England reluctantly followed France out of the bar, dreading the idea of having the frog invade his kitchen.

---

England doubted what transpired was the warm family gathering that France had been hoping for. America and Canada descended upon his flat in a somber mood and proceeded to eat with a pointed lack of enthusiasm. The sullen atmosphere was striking and England was at a loss as to what could be the cause of it. He briefly wondered if America was going to ask him for money, but he pushed that thought aside. Looking to his left, England saw the crestfallen look on France's face and he wasn't sure if it had been caused by the lack of enthusiasm towards his food or the fact that the boys would not respond to any of his attempts to start a conversation.

"Alright lads," England began after he decided he couldn't take this silence any longer. "You two obviously have something to say, so why not just spit it out?"

He watched as they both shifted. Canada glanced over at America, who gave a mournful groan before reaching into his coat and pulling out an envelope. "About a week ago one of my people, this old explorer guy, found a weird old cabin along the American-Canadian border." America proceeded to produce a set of black and white pictures from the envelope and spread them out across the dinner table. "We couldn't make out anything from them, but we figured you might have some answers."

England gingerly pulled the three pictures closer towards him and France. The first was a bit blurry, but clearly displayed an old (yet familiar) house that had been chipped away by the passage of time. The second was a close up of the interior and showed two names -- "Alfred" and "Mathieu" -- that had been crudely carved into the walls along two sets of markings. The final picture displayed an assortment of old papers, the ink on which had faded away over the years. On top of the stacks lay two scraps of paper one that clearly read "Arthur Kirkland" and the other "Francis Bonnefoy."

"Why are our names all over that house?" America asked, or rather demanded, his terse voice troublingly unfamiliar. "Why would all four of us be living together?"

"There's a perfectly reasonable explanation for this," England began, scrambling to think up a suitable lie to cover his tracks, but France was quicker than him.

"We are your-"

England cut him off with a look and France answered him with one of his own. Once again they were at an impasse.

"Why don't you two give us a moment?" England instructed as he waved the two off and made to clear the table. "We'll meet you in the parlor."

America and Canada shared skeptical looks before slowly going off to do as they were told. As soon as they were gone and firmly out of ear shot, England pinned France with a withering glare. "We can't tell them," he hissed.

"They deserve to know."

"They won't accept it."

"They have evidence!"

England moved to gather up the dishes in his hands, but France interrupted him, stilling his arms and giving him a look that was simply... heartbreaking. "Oh, what do you expect to happen?" England huffed. "You tell them the truth and they'll come running into your arms and we'll all be one big happy family? You need to wake up Francis. They're not yours anymore."

"They will always be mine," France snapped. He pressed a trembling hand to his stomach in a familiar gesture that had haunted England's dreams for ages. "They came from my body, they slept right here, just below my heart, and every day you tell me 'do not love them,' 'do not want them,' but how can I not love them or want them when they are a part of me!" Tears flooded those dear blue eyes and England felt his resolve start to crumble. "You stole them away from me, the least you can do is help me get them back."

Those words were enough to hit home and England found his own eyes stinging as he gave a weak nod. "Fine, we'll tell them," he relented. "But don't get your hopes up."

France gave him a watery smile and a teary kiss before they left the plates where they were and walked into the parlor. America and Canada sat side by side on the beaten up old couch that France was intent on destroying and England was only mildly surprised to find that they were just as tight lipped and withdrawn as they had been before. They sat beside the two, England parking himself next to Canada and France gently settling in beside America.

"You two are old enough to hear the truth, so you're going to get the truth," England sighed.

They proceeded to tell the twins the entire story, from their conception to their birth to the day that the family had been ripped apart. France and England both watched their faces carefully throughout their story, waiting for any reaction only to find the boys remaining quiet the entire time. When they were finished, they waited in silence for either brother to say a word, and were surprised when it was Canada who chose to break the silence.

"So... you're our parents?" Canada asked softly, testing the waters with the strange new word.

France was practically beaming as he took in the term, thrilled to finally have it used for the first time in centuries. "Oui. Yes, we are your parents."

America remained quiet for a few beats, a fact that sent a grave chill running through the occupants of the parlor, and the stony look on his face didn't help the situation either. England cleared his throat in the  hopes of jump starting his reaction, Canada shifted slightly, his shoulder unintentionally bumping into his brother's side, and France waited in a heavy silence.

"You're our parents," America began slowly, pushing the words out through gritted teeth, "and you just... abandoned us."

"That's not what happened," England chided, wondering if America had been listening to the story at all.

France made to grasp America's hand in his own, but he pulled away before France's fingers could even hover over his skin. "Alfred," France began, but was quickly cut off.

"You two were always crappy big brothers, but now I know you're shitty parents," America went on. "You... you just dumped us in the woods like we were trash and turned your backs on us."

"That's not what happened!" England barked.

"Well tell that to a scared little kid who spent most of his life alone!" America snapped back. England would have loved nothing more than to yell at him, but the tears that were currently fogging up America's glasses gave him pause. "Tell that to a kid who spent hundreds of Christmases and birthdays alone without anyone around to tell him... they loved him."

The silence that settled on them was heavy and England felt certain they'd all be crushed under its weight. A pitiful sob escaped France's lips and England could already tell that the man was too overcome with his own guilt to muster up the strength to say more.

"I'm out of here," America announced as he pushed himself off of the chair and stomped towards the front door.

Canada looked awkwardly from the door that had just slammed shut to France's sobbing figure, before his gaze fell to the hands twisting uncomfortably in his lap. At least he had handled the situation better than America, but England had a feeling that deep down inside Canada longed for the courage to echo his brother's sentiments.

"You can go now Ma... Canada," England said, taking pity on the boy and giving him the opportunity to escape.

Canada nodded, but he didn't move right away. His eyes turned towards France and lingered there for a few moments. He sat in silence, perhaps searching for something to say or do, but ended up just standing and walking out the door.

As soon as they were both gone England shifted, scooting over to France's end of the couch and offering him his shoulder in support. France accepted it eagerly, dissolving into a fit of blubbering sobs as he collapsed onto England's side.

---

Canada didn't return to the hotel right away. He picked up a cab and drove around the city for a while, trying to sort through all the things shifting and colliding in his head. The drive helped a bit, because watching people wander around and carry on with their day to day lives had always been a bit soothing for him. Yet Canada knew that he couldn't keep the cabbie going in circles all night, so he eventually asked to be dropped off at his hotel.

When he got back to his room he found that America was already there. He was sitting on the floor with a bottle of bourbon and a pint of ice cream as something bluesy and depressing crooned into the room from the radio by the window sill. "I didn't know if I wanted ice cream or booze," America explained, shoveling another spoonful of melted chocolate ice cream into his mouth. "I got you a pint," he said, motioning towards the tub of vanilla ice cream melting beside him.

Canada grabbed it, grateful that his brother was being at least partially considerate before sitting down on the bed he had claimed as his own and spooning the soupy mess into his mouth.

"I can't believe those guys," America grumbled. "I can't believe our rotten luck. It's like winning big in Vegas, but then getting mugged on your way out of the casino. It's like finding a dollar on the sidewalk, and then getting struck by lightning. It's like getting tickets to a Yankees game, but having it rained out."

It's like discovering that you actually have parents, and then finding out they're the most dysfunctional couple in the world, Canada finished silently.

Canada understood why his brother was taking this revelation so hard, because for as long as he could remember America had been adamant in his belief that, unlike other nations, they had parents. America's evidence had always been flimsy at best and his supposed memories of having a mother were quite vague -- a figure in a powder blue dress rocking him to sleep, a pair of warm lips pressed against his forehead, a tender voice soothing away his tears -- but now at long last, America had been proven right and the results weren't at all what he had been hoping for, which was why he couldn't accept it and be content to have them.

On the other hand, Canada couldn't fathom why he hadn't seen it coming. It all made sense in a strange way, because England had been the one to tell them that they were brothers, twins at that, but had never elaborated further on how he had known and France, who was always quite universally flirtatious, had never sent as much as a suggestive glance their way. Yet if America had pieced any of this together, he had quickly denied it in favor of his own version of the truth.

Canada sighed as he dug a trench into the middle of his tub, before reaching into the nightstand and pulling out a bottle of maple syrup. He twisted off the cap and poured its contents into his ice cream. He felt torn straight down the middle. He didn't know what to think or who to side with. Mostly Canada was happy. Even though he had never bought into America's belief about their parents, the idea of having some made him feel giddy, special. True, France and England wouldn't have been his first choice, or even his second, but they were better than nothing. Canada just wished that America could share in his feelings instead of throwing himself a one man pity party.

"Don't you think you're being a little...?" The word 'melodramatic' danced on the tip of his tongue, but he held back against that. "Maybe we should hear them out," Canada suggested. "I mean, they didn't really have much of a choice. I don't think they really wanted to give us up."

"Yeah, but they did," America shot back. "They did. They didn't fight for us. They just gave up when things got too hard and spent the rest of our lives lying to our faces." America's voice grew thicker and he took the opportunity to fix that by grabbing his bottle of Jim Beam and guzzling its contents. "If they really loved us they would have tried."

Canada didn't say anything, because there was no reasoning with America when he was in one of these moods. He just sat back and ate his half melted ice cream, hoping that his brother would be in a better state come morning.

---

The next day wasn't any better. After the talk with the boys had blown up in their faces, France had spent most of the night in a near catatonic state on the couch. England had tried everything to coax him out of it. He'd offered him wine, cigarettes, and even brought up details about the wedding in the hopes that having a scuffle over the budget or floral arrangements would be enough to stir him out of his somber mood. But France was intent on wallowing in his own misery, because he had been waiting for the day when they could tell the boys the truth and instead of having the heartfelt reunion he dreamed of, things had only gotten worse.

That night England had reluctantly went to bed alone and when he woke up the next morning it was only to discover that France's health had deteriorated and whether it was due to his illness or his own feelings of self-pity was impossible to decipher. England only knew that the sight of thick beads of sweat dripping from France's ashen skin as he struggled to breathe made him feel sick inside.

England had a feeling that he knew just how to fix all of this, even if it would be a bit humiliating.

He stayed with France for an hour or two, making absolutely certain that he would be fine on his own, before brewing France a cup of tea -- because even if he didn't really care for the drink England was certain it'd make him feel better -- and loading up his briefcase to attend another round of meetings.

When he arrived at the conference hall -- nearly three hours late, not that he cared -- England found that America was missing. England briefly wondered if he had gone home early in order to avoid further interaction with France and England.

He waited as patiently as he could for the first round of deliberation to wind down and for lunch to be called in order for him to put his plan into action.

"Canada," he called out, grabbing the startled young man by his elbow and dragging him off to a secluded corner in order to prevent him from disappearing into the crowd. "Can I have a word with you?"

Canada shifted awkwardly, his eyes drifting downward even as he allowed England to lead him away from the other nations. It was hard for England to tell what was going through Canada's head, but England was certain that he still was having trouble processing the idea that they were father and son. Not that England was feeling any easier about the situation. He may have known from the start that they were related, but England had not played the role of father for more than two centuries, having nearly convinced even himself that he and the North America twins were no more than "brothers" since then.

"I noticed your brother didn't attend the meeting today," he began conversationally. "Is everything alright?"

"Well, uh," Canada began, his halting speech a clear indication that a lie was forming in his head. "He wasn't feeling well, so..."

England nodded as Canada's words slowly trailed off. "I see," he hummed thoughtfully. "And... how are you?"

Canada's cheeks turned pink at the question and England was disheartened to note that he actually took a step back before answering. "Fine," he said, but England could tell that there were a hundred other things he wanted to say. Instead he settled for asking "How's France? I mean... France."

"Not well I'm afraid," England grumbled. "He's convinced himself that he's dying and is currently using my sofa as his death bed. Not that I care, of course, it's just that he's the most melodramatic man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing and I wish he'd pick some other location to have his little episode."

Canada gave an uneasy nod, a clear indication that England should have stopped talking a full sentence ago.

It was strange how awkward this all was. Just a few days ago he and Canada had been able to speak easily. No. That was a lie. He and Canada had always had trouble exchanging words due in large part to the boy's meek nature and England's own desire to keep their relationship as impersonal and distant as possible. The only time they had spoken easily was when Canada had been nothing more than a toddler and England would spend long afternoons chattering away to the baby in his arms in the hopes of helping him learn new words. Not for the first time, England wished dearly that he could return to those simpler times.

He swallowed the wistful sigh that longed to escape him and instead gave a short cough. "Well, I wanted to give you something," he began as he reached into his coat and pulled out two neatly folded pieces of paper that had been yellowed and withered by age. "Actually, it's for both of you, you and your brother that is. We, meaning France and I, we wrote these back when we thought there was only one of you. So, I suppose
you two should read it together."

"Oh. Okay," Canada whispered as he accepted the papers into his hands.

England felt certain that the conversation would end there and gave Canada a slight nod as he started towards the other end of the hall. However, Canada's soft, awkward "Uh, Dad?" stopped him in his tracks. Suddenly the image of wide violet eyes gazing into his own as he hummed a lullaby and rocked the babe to sleep flashed before him and England actually felt his heart twist. His arms were wrapped around Canada before he could even remember closing the distance between them and England would have been content to just stay that way -- fingers clinging to the stiff fabric of Canada's blazer as England breathed in his scent and remembered -- forever.

Slowly, hesitantly, Canada's rigid arms wrapped themselves around him as he returned the unexpected embrace and England felt positively warm and gooey inside.

"Now now, lad," England chided as he pulled away from the boy, self-consciously wiping at the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "Not while we're in public."

---

When Canada returned to his hotel room at the end of the day he was greeted by the sight of America dumping piles of clothes into an already cramped leather suitcase. "You're leaving?" Canada asked, giving voice to the painfully obvious question that was crowding his head.

"Yeah, I'm outta here," America announced as he grabbed more rumpled clothes and shoved them into his suitcase. "I'm gonna head to the airport and see if I can catch an early flight home."

"Alfred, we have another three days of meetings left," Canada reminded him, but America wasn't listening. He was packing. Canada sighed as he walked over to America's overflowing suitcase and plucked out a few articles of clothing and folded them on the bed. "I hope you know you're being a baby."

"Am not," America shot back as he rummaged through the bathroom for things to take. He returned with all the towels and a few bars of soap, which he proceeded to cram into his suitcase. "I don't want to see those two, so I'm skipping out of here. My boss can chew me out all he wants, I don't care."

"So you're running away," he concluded, folding a pair of wrinkled slacks and moving on to a dress shirt.

"I'm not running away, I'm going home."

"To hide," Canada added.

America stopped then and pinned Canada with a sideways glance. "I know what you're doing Mattie and it's not gonna work."

"I'm not doing anything," he said innocently. "I'm just helping you pack."

"Yeah, whatever," America grumbled. He stalked over towards the window sill and flipped on the radio, twisting the dials in search of something to listen to.

Canada sighed, finishing off the little pile he had been working on before moving on to another. "France is sick," Canada said at last.

America paused in his search for a station, but only for a moment. He soon gave an indifferent huff, before turning the knobs on the radio once more. "Yeah, he's been sick for like a year. What else is new?"

"Well, England says it's bad," Canada went on. "I think you should at least see him before you go."

"Why should I?"

"Because he's your father."

A loud crack filled the air and Canada looked up to see that America had managed to snap the knob of the radio clean off. "Don't say that."

"No, I'm going to say it," Canada huffed. "He's our father. He gave birth to us and, yeah that's weird, but it happened and I'm going to be an adult and deal with it. You can go be a baby and run back home and hide from the truth."

"I'm not a baby!"

"Yes you are Alfred!" he barked. Canada fought against the groan bubbling in his throat when he looked down at his hands and saw that he had ripped America's blazer clean in half. "You go around calling yourself a hero, but you just run away from things that are too hard to deal with. You're a coward."

America didn't say anything to that, choosing instead to just stare out the window at the sky that was seeping into a heavy blackish blue as the radio crooned a jazzy tune to fill the awkward silence that had settled upon them. Canada half expected America to bolt for the door or at least crush the little radio in his palm, but he didn't do that either and Canada took that as a sign that his brother was actually trying to wrap his mind around all of this.

He sighed into the tense air and pulled out the letters that he had kept tucked away in his pocket. "England gave these to me," he began as he walked over to America's side. "He said that we should read them together."

Canada handed America one envelope and kept the other. He began unfolding the aged piece of paper carefully and was pleased when he noticed that America was doing the same. "I can't read this, Mattie," America grumbled as he handed the paper back to Canada. "It's in French."

Canada rolled his eyes as he swapped the letters between them. "You read this one then," he sighed. He waited for America to start, but when he looked over at him, he saw that his brother was still staring out the window. "Alfie, what does it say?"

America sighed as he lifted the paper and started to quickly scan the first lines. "Dear Baby," he read before taking a moment to pause in order to roll his eyes dully. "I am writing to you at your 'mother's' request. He doesn't get bright ideas often, so I am doing him the favor of humoring this one.

"I do not know what you are or what you will be and half of me is still trying to convince the other that you are not even mine, but I am absolutely certain that I do not care about that, because..." America stopped then as his eyes filled with something strange and distant as his shoulders began to slump. Canada watched as his brother sat down heavily on the foot of the bed, before finally whispering, "... because I love you already."

The song on the radio came to a gradual end and another soon faded in to take its place.

"I did not have a father growing up, so I am not sure whether or not I will be a very good one," America went on and Canada had to admit that he was a bit proud of him for continuing, "but I doubt that either of us will have to worry, because I know that Francis is going to be a wonderful parent, although I would rather die before I ever tell him that.

"There is probably a month or two left until you are born and I eagerly count the days until I get to meet you. I know you are going to be wonderful with or without my help. Love always... your father."

America plucked the glasses off of his nose and rested his face into the palm of his hand. He didn't make a sound, but Canada could see the silent tears drip from between the cracks of his fingers. Canada placed a supportive hand on his brother's shoulder, before clearing away the tightness in his own throat and turning towards his own letter.

"My dearest little love," he began, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You are sleeping now. You drifted off soon after dinner with my heart beat serving as your steady lullaby. You are not so peaceful when you are awake and you kick me so fiercely that sometimes it is all I can do to withstand the pain. That is alright. In a strange way I love the pain, because your little kicks are a constant reminder that you are here inside of me growing stronger each day.

"I think I will miss being pregnant after you are born, because as much as I hate being fat and ugly, I love how impossibly close we are. I hope we will be just as close when you are born. No. I know we will be, because I just know that we will be together always.

"I cannot wait to share you with the world and show you your place in it. There are so many things for you to learn and explore, each and every little thing so wonderful and new to your little eyes, and I will adore sharing it all with you.

"Perhaps we can share it all with your father, too. He is not so bad once you get passed his grouchiness. Things are quite peaceful between the two of us, your father and I, but I know they will not always be. When you are born, you will see that we will fight and argue constantly, but do not worry, because we will both always love you. I already know this quite well. Love, your papa."

The radio crackled on in the background and Canada suddenly felt too tired to stand anymore. He sighed as he came to sit next to America who was still busy sobbing into his hands. Canada felt his own vision blur and he allowed himself to be swept away by the overwhelming emotions.

---

"Francis, do you want me to open the windows for you?"

France didn't answer. He continued to silently lay on the couch looking pale and weak as he stared blankly at nothing. England frowned as he watched the man's deep even breaths and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was exaggerating his condition. He didn't know how much more of this he could take, because he was by no means a patient man.

"I just finished brewing a nice pot of tea. Would you like some?"

His answer came as a heavy sigh as France's head lulled to its side, burying him further into the pea green couch's embrace. Within another day England was certain the cushions would swallow him whole.

He was determined not to give in and was quick to pull up a chair beside the man's prone figure. "I baked up a fresh batch of scones," he told him, setting the still warm plate on his own lap. "I assure you they're quite good. Barely burnt at all, really. Would you like one?"

France answered by blinking his eyes in a sluggish manner and England took that to mean "perhaps a bit later."

"I was thinking about popping down to the bakery today to select a cake for the wedding," he lied, hoping that the mere mention of their impending nuptials would get a rise out of the man. "I know how much you love English pastries and such."

Nothing. England decided to up his game.

"Speaking of which, I decided to set a date. With you being out of commission and all, I assumed you wouldn't mind. How does the fourteenth of October sound? I know it's not a Sunday afternoon in the summer like you wanted, but it was all they had."

Still nothing.

"Did I mention that the ceremony is going to be held at a Protestant church?"

Silence.

England sighed, shifting in his seat. "Look Francis, I know you're still upset about the children, but-"

"Children?" France repeated slowly, his voice hoarse from disuses. "I have no children. I only have two gaping holes in my heart. I gave them life, I gave them my body, I gave them the blood in my veins, but it was not enough for them." Tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, but France made no move to acknowledge their presence. "I could die tomorrow and would he care? No. No I am not his father, I am just a stranger." France's lips quivered as he rolled onto his side, burying his face into the back of the chair, his sobs muffled by the cushion. "No one wants me. No one needs me. I will just die here."

"Oh you mushy headed nitwit!" England barked as he used the back of his hand to wipe at... at nothing! Because he was not crying over this melodramatic nonsense damn it! "Get over yourself. I warned you that this would happen, didn't I? And America... well Alfred had the misfortune of inheriting the worst of both of us. He's a self-centered child like you and a stubborn arse like me. He'll never accept us and we'll just have to accept that."

At that moment a sharp knock came from the main door, cutting through France's pitiful sobs and ending England's little tirade then and there.

"I'll get it," England grumbled as he stood from his chair and marched over to the door. He was more than a bit stunned when he saw America and Canada waiting for him on the other side and if it weren't for the sheepish look on America's face, England would have slammed the door on them both. "What do you two want?" he asked tersely.

"Your house smells like a bag of flour took a dump," America commented in place of a proper greeting. "Were you baking again?"

The urge to slam the door was crawling up his hand like an army of fire ants and England satisfied himself by glaring up at the two. "What do you want?" he asked again.

"You didn't come to the meeting today," Canada said, but it wasn't much of an explanation because England could tell from their informal attire and the early hour that they hadn't gone either. "We came to check on you and... and France."

England looked from America to Canada and back again. He didn't buy the excuse one bit, but he doubted that the two were intending to cause any more trouble. With a reluctant sigh he stepped aside, allowing them to enter his flat. He ushered them into the parlor and was relieved to see that France had stopped crying (for now at least).

The boys merely stood there in awkward silence, staring at France's prone figure and shifting from foot to foot. "You have visitors, Francis," England announced, before stepping out of the room in order to bring in another chair for the boys to sit in.

When he returned to the parlor America had taken a seat in the chair that England had been occupying and looked ready to speak. He watched as the boy frowned, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a deep breath. "Okay," America began slowly as he spoke to France's back. "So I decided that maybe I believe you about this whole... parent thing and maybe... maybe I understand now that you didn't want to abandon me. I'm still mad though, because... well because growing up alone sucks, but I'm just not as pissed off as I was before." America stopped, seemingly finished with his little speech, but a gentle nudge from Canada helped to produce a frustrated groan before he went on to say, "I was originally gonna have that house burned to the ground, but... well, if you want I can fix it up for you... as a wedding present... Pops."

"Alfred," France sobbed, raising his head and pinning America with a teary stare. America shifted, folding his arms tighter around his middle, but somehow France interpreted the gesture as an opening and soon jumped from the couch and towards America's side. In a flash France was on his feet, pulling America's reluctant figure into a tight embrace and sobbing openly into his side. "Oh Alfred. Alfred!" he wept, pressing watery kisses to America's cheeks even as he squirmed and fought to escape. "Oh mon coeur. Mon ame. How I have missed you!"

"Geez, France, I said I was still mad!" America groaned as he attempted to push France's arms away.

"Do not call me France," France chided with a teary sigh, his limbs set and secure around America's waist. "I am your Papa, remember mon coeur? Your Papa."

Canada chuckled at the scene and England rewarded him with a gentle shove in France's direction. France saw Canada stumble towards him and was quick to grab the other twin and pull him into the crushing
embrace.

"Ah, dear Mathieu," he sighed, pressing his tear stained cheek against the other boy's side. "Ma vie. Mon amour." A quivering breath escaped France's lips as he took a step back in order to study the confused twins. From the way France gazed at them with such wonder and amazement, one would assume he hadn't laid an eye on his children in ages, yet they had seen each other on and off for the past few years. "You both have changed so much," he sighed wistfully. "To think that you both once fit inside of me." Tears crept back into his gaze as France slowly leaned in to give the two a softer, and perhaps firmer, embrace. "I could spend the rest of my life telling you both how much I love and missed you and it still would not be enough."

"It's okay, Pops," America relented as he offered France a stiff pat on the back.

"Your letter explained a lot," Canada told him.

"My letter?" France blinked, craning his neck towards England who offered him only a sheepish shrug.

"Well, I thought... maybe it was time."

France beamed at him, love and warmth shining in his blue eyes as he held out an arm and motioned for England to join their little circle. He did so reluctantly, stepping stiffly towards America's side and resting his cheek against France's shoulder. Yet when he wrapped his arms around them, the fact that he was holding his entire family for the first time in centuries suddenly came crashing down on him.

"I'm sorry," he sobbed, his hand groping out to squeeze Matthew and Alfred. "I'm so sorry. It was... it was my fault. All of it. Please forgive me."

"We forgive you, Dad," Alfred whispered and Arthur could hear the tears creeping into his voice. "Does this mean we can spend Christmas together?"

"Christmases, birthdays, Easters and whatever silly little holidays you want," Arthur blubbered. "We have hundreds of missed holidays to make up for."

"Good, because you owe me a crap ton of money on missed gifts," Alfred whimpered.

"Well you're not getting a bloody dime!" Arthur wept.

"Alfred, stop arguing with your father," Francis sniffed. "You are both ruining the moment."

"Dad? Papa?" Matthew sniffled.

"Yes Matthew?" the two answered.

Matthew chuckled, a weak strained sound as he wiped at the tears trailing down his cheeks. "Nothing," he half sobbed half laughed. "I... I just wanted to try that out."

The four of them laughed at the little joke just as Arthur and Francis went about kissing each boy on their cheeks, making a silent promise that nothing would ever tear their family apart again.