What up, biatches? Yep, this story is finally getting revived! *Fireworks* I hope to update once a week, but don't hold me to it. Oh well. We'll see. As always, comments and reader input is very appreciated.

WARNING! HERE THERE BE:

-Yaoi (gay male on male)

-Crossdressing

-Possible Mpreg

-Ignoring of canon age progression

-Other warnings to be added as I see fit

Enjoy!

I own nothing.

He is beautiful in his repose, the moonlight spilling across our bed from the uncurtained window highlighting both strong musculature and slight curves. He is lovely, has always been so under the moon's kind rays, but tonight he seems even more so than usual. Creamy skin is cool against my own where he curls up against me, since it is winter outside; I don't mind. His head is pillowed on my shoulder, blonde waves falling into his face. My touch light as a feather, I brush a lock of burnished gold hair from his face, smiling softly when he shifts in his sleep and nuzzles unconsciously into me, never waking. His hair is longer than it has been the past century or so; he's growing it out again now that long hair on males has re-entered the mainstream.

A low fire crackles in the grate of the fireplace, casting a dim, warm ruddy light that contrasts artistically with the coldly bright and beautiful moonlight. The room is littered with the evidence of our recent activities: clothing carelessly scattered over the floor, not a single article between us, only a sheet draped over his hips preserving my lover's modesty and nothing covering myself; the smell of sex and sweat hanging heavy in the air; the small rag stained with semen and bottle of lubricant laying on one of the bedside tables.

It is peaceful in the aftermath of our lovemaking. Still. Contentment is almost tangible in the air, and I revel in the feeling of isolation. For a moment, the rest of the world does not exist. Tonight, we are alone; no politics to worry Matthew, no brother to distract me. No Canada, no Germany. Just Matthew and Gilbert, lovers and husbands for longer than any mortal could remember. These nights are far and few between and always unpredictable, always have been; I have learned to cherish them when they arise.

Continuing to pet soft blonde hair, my mind wanders.

I don't remember many details of the night I met Matthew Williams. I remember it was a warm summer night, at Francis' lavish estate just outside of Paris in the late 17th century- the exact year and day has been lost to me. I would have to look it up in one of my diaries. I was young by our standards then, a mere 460 or so years old, give or take a few decades; just barely old enough to be a man in my compatriots' eyes, my physical body reflecting that notion by appearing roughly 17. I was still one of Poland's duchies at the time, my time as a knighthood long past but my true Nationhood still to come. I believe Matthew was about 150 then, appearing a child of about 13.

Francis was throwing a party, a ball of some kind- such extravagant entertainments were common then, and all ran into each other after a while- meant to formally welcome Matthew into his house and show off his newest and grandest colony to the European elite. The ballroom was all burnished gold and blue, but I've forgotten which ballroom it was, Francis has had them all redone a number of times since then.

Matthew was going by a different name then; few Nations go too long without some kind of name change, after all. Then, he was called Matthieu Bonnefoy, but that night I was told it was Madeline Bonnefoy.

The evening itself I do not remember well, but Matthew I remember vividly. He was dressed as a young girl just on the cusp of womanhood, still a child but not for much longer. Like his father, he dressed in the height of fashion; a satin gown, jewelry made exclusively of pearls, long hair curled. He played the part of the charming debutant well, tricking even the most seasoned of Nations in the room into believing he was a female, and I suppose some part of me will always picture Matthew as an innocent, blushing maid in pink and pearls because of it.

As I danced with him that night, I thought my attraction to him no more than a passing fancy. I had not the slightest inkling what that deceptively restrained and pleasant colony from across the sea would one day become to me.

What a fool I was.