Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.
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Enjoy!~

North America

Britain lay sprawled out on a plush, London blue couch, wearing nothing but an oversized button-up of France's and boxers as a handheld video game hovered in front of his face, his fingers gliding across the different buttons to beat up some kind of evil monster onscreen. His light golden hair stuck out at odd spiky angles as opposed to typically lying straight and neat, and for once the straight-laced country didn't care: all of his gentlemanly duties had vacated his mind in place of figuring out how to beat the stupid 16-bit monster that his sword-wielding hero had accidentally discovered under a bush while blazing through the in-game mystical forest. Why the bloody hell is this game so hard to beat? I've tried bombing the damned beast and even that didn't work! What do I have to do, cast a spell on the thing? Maybe it'd be possible if I had a mage or cleric character, but no… I have a stupid knight!

The unmistakable sound of the front door opening and closing wafted down the hallway and through the dining and living room, tugging Britain out of his reverie—he knew who it was that had entered his home even before the accented, airy voice broke the silence. "Mon amour! Where are you?"

"I'm in the back room," Britain called, his chartreuse eyes darting toward the archway leading into the kitchen before turning back to his game. "Why do you even ask that when you usually find me before I have a chance to respond?"

Sinewy arms wrapped around the grumpy country's neck as France knelt beside the couch, his cheek nuzzling into Britain's. "It makes it easier to find you, mais bien sûr! Hmm…" France paused, moving slightly to press his cheek to the other's forehead. "Are you feeling d'accord, Angleterre? You feel warm, like you have a fever. Are you sick?"

Britain shrugged, mashing the four circular buttons on his handheld with his right thumb. "I don't think so. I feel fine."

"Euh, if you're sure," France murmured, planting a kiss in the center of Britain's forehead before straightening, his arms returning to his sides. "Oh! Japan gave me something to give to you at the World Conference, I almost forgot!"

He ambled out of the room for a moment, giving Britain enough time to save his game, sitting up and stretching before he reappeared, clutching some kind of colorful plastic bag adorned with drawings of fruit. France tossed the bag into his lap, a pair of azure irises eyeing the shorter blonde's midsection as he dropped to his knees in front of Britain. "Huh, is this candy?" Britain's attention turned to the bag as he picked it up, popping it open and removing one of the individually wrapped pieces of artificially flavored solid sugar.

"It looks like it," France remarked, his hands darting underneath Britain's borrowed shirt as his fingertips brushed against the fleshy plane of his companion's stomach. "Angleterre, have you put on weight recently?"

Shock played across Britain's features as his viridian eyes shifted to France's face. "Are you crazy? Of course I haven't! We've been on the same bloody diet plan for months, you know! Trying to call me fat, frog?"

A gentle chuckle resonated in France's throat at the mention of their 'diet plan.' "Non non non! Nothing like that. You know I worry about your health, what with your terrible taste in food and all…."

Scarlet frustration tinged Britain's cheeks as he shoved France away and hopped to his feet, unwrapping the candy in his hands and chucking the bag along with his handheld game system onto the quadrilateral coffee table in the center of the room. "I do not have terrible taste in food! You, sir, are just too fucking picky when it comes to eating!"

The temperamental country stormed out of the back room, lobbing the circular candy in his mouth. France sat stunned on his knees, frozen to the spot as the scene rewound and replayed through his mind. Something is terribly wrong if Britain uses that langue to address me. He discovered the ability to move once again as he leapt to his feet and bounded out of the room; his heart plummeted into his stomach as he found Britain doubled over in the middle of the front living room, clutching his midsection. "England…? What's wrong?" Concerned anxiety seeped into his tone as he crossed the room and crouched beside the other, eyes scrutinizing the reluctant expression masking Britain's blanched face.

"G-Get away from me… oh s-shit…" Britain mumbled, a hand rising to cover his mouth as he stumbled to his feet and dashed up the stairs, turning left into the expansive bathroom.

France shook his head as he tailed Britain, the sounds of retching slowing his chase. He crossed the threshold into the bathroom, turning his head toward the sink as he bent down to rub Britain's back, inwardly cursing his weak stomach. The smaller blonde's muscles spasmed violently as his stomach voided itself, clinging to the toilet for almost dear life until the sudden nausea subsided. He yanked the decorative towel off of the rack beside him, wiping his mouth and flushing everything away, his back leaning against France's legs. France leaned over, hooking his arms around his lover and scooping him up with ease, holding the pallid country close and making his way out of the bathroom. He waltzed into Britain's bedroom that he had shared for almost a year, taking a seat in the middle of the made-up bed as an arm coiled protectively around Britain, his free hand whisking away the strands of blonde hair that covered the other's sweaty forehead. "I… I don't know what's wrong with me," Britain muttered thickly, his vibrant peridot eyes filling with tears as he squeezed France's midsection, uncharacteristic terror surfacing behind his irises. "I didn't feel like this until I ate that c-candy… d-do you think it's a bad batch…?"

France's mouth twitched uncertainly. "I-I am not sure, though one thing is certain: I'm staying here with you until you get better. I won't leave you here by yourself if you're sick, Angleterre."

"T-Thank you, France," Britain hiccupped as he buried his face into the other's chest, his hands balling into fists around handfuls of France's shirt.

"Maybe you'll realize that I will do anything for you after this, oui?" France breathed in Britain's ear as a trail of kisses rained down upon the ashen country's jaw line, practiced fingertips drawing patterns in the small of his back.

"I'll never get that t-through my thick head," Britain whimpered faintly, a shuddering sigh escaping him as his eyes flickered shut, allowing the opaque blanket of sleep to fully envelope him and thankfully dull the anxious churning in his stomach, if only for a few hours.

France never anticipated Britain's sickness to last three straight months, though he could definitely say that it wasn't caused by the candy Japan had given his love. He waited hand and foot on the diminutive country, keeping his distance when Britain flew into fits of rage and taking him into his arms when he needed a shoulder to cry on afterward. He found himself propped up against the wall beside the bed, cradling Britain in his arms as the other played the handheld game that he had received as a Christmas gift from Japan last year. France's clear oceanic eyes nervously traced across the obvious bulge that had formed in Britain's stomach during the months in which the blonde had been ravaged by unrelenting illness, his hands whisking down to rest against it, noticing that the thin cloth of the other's t-shirt had stretched accommodatingly. "Angleterre, I'm worried for obvious reasons," France whispered into Britain's ear, biting his bottom lip as he braced for his companion to fly off the handle in frenzied anger like he usually did whenever France hinted at the drastic changes that his body had undergone in such a short period of time.

Britain's chest heaved with a copious sigh, switching his handheld off and pivoting around to face France, perching on his knees. His light emerald eyes met France's sky blue as an electric current of knowledgeable fear passed between the two. "I know, I know…. Either I have a tumor or I'm pregnant, and I personally think that it's the latter. How in the bloody hell does this happen, though…?"

"You know that we're not like other people out there, England," France mused as everything that Britain had put him through flashed before his eyes, from the instantaneous mood swings to the nausea that overtook his companion every morning of the last three months: everything that had come to pass suddenly made sense, especially when put in the correct perspective. "We are nations, and because of that we have to represent the female half of our population somehow. Didn't anyone ever tell you that nations have both reproductive systems, though only one is visible? …I know I sound crazy, mais c'est vrai! You must believe me."

A saffron brow had quirked reflexively as France explained. Britain was silent for a few moments before he nodded, his expression resigned as he struggled to comprehend what France had told him. "I have to believe you because it makes sense in some crazy way, but I can't believe you did this to me, you git…."

France rose to his knees, an incredulous look overcoming his face. "You think I did this to you, Angleterre? Non, je ne pense pas! It takes two, does it not? You are just as responsible for this as I am!"

Britain's expression abruptly broke: he couldn't deny the truth that fell from France's lips, charging the tense air around them. He hopped to his feet unexpectedly, padding over to the closet and jerking the door open, propping it ajar with his foot as he lifted his shirt enough to expose his stomach. One of his hands caressed the bump lovingly as he glanced back toward France, beckoning him over with the twitch of his head. France bounded over and stood behind Britain, his hands freely exploring the rounded flesh that swelled with novel life. "You're right for once, frog," Britain mumbled under his breath, gazing at France's reflection in the mirror as curious affection gamboled within his forest-hued irises, "I am responsible for this just as much as you. We're completely insane for bringing new life into this world: we are going to be the worst parents in the universe. Yet… somehow, I'm excited."

"Moi aussi, mon amour," France agreed, leaning down as his lips brushed against Britain's wildly fluttering pulse beside his jugular. "This is something to celebrate, non? Let's stop worrying so much; I have a feeling that whoever is inside here"—he patted Britain's stomach gently—"just might be a new country, don't you think?"

Britain shrugged as he tugged his shirt down, leaning fully against the Frenchman that held him. "We'll simply have to wait and see."

"France, I swear to God these cravings are going to kill me!" Britain shouted through his two-story home as he lay propped up against the arm of one of his couches in the living room, balancing a book against the protuberance that was his stomach. "Please, cook for me! I'll beg if I have to!"

The Frenchman trotted down the stairs and into the living room, tying his champagne hair back with a midnight ribbon and patting Britain's head as he passed through the dining room and into the kitchen. "What would you like, mon cher?"

"Would you kill me if I said I wanted a maple syrup-soaked hamburger?" Britain inquired, shooting a look over his shoulder at the now-gagging France.

"Euh… non, non… though you're eating nothing but French food after le bébé is born! And I refuse to put syrup on a hamburger, you can do that yourself," France stated after regaining his composure, stealing a pound of thawed hamburger out of the refrigerator and taking out his favorite skillet.

"That's fine with me," Britain replied, a satisfied grin breaking across his face as he dog-eared the page of his book and shut it, dropping it to the floor and turning his attention to the concealed bundle that decided at that moment to kick his insides. "This little one's kicks are becoming stronger and stronger everyday… I know that his (or her) birthday is coming up soon."

The sound of sizzling meat commanded Britain's mouth to water as he placed his hands on either side of his stomach. "Well, at least we are well-prepared, non? We will have to thank Japan and Greece later for their help!" France's voice hung above the cooking hamburger as he flipped the patty over, grease popping in protest to the half-cooked meat.

The image of a nursery adorned in shades of crimson, ivory, and cobalt danced across Britain's mind, complete with stacks of diapers and cans of powdery formula piled beside the changing table. France flicked the gas stove off and slid the well-done patty between two slices of bread and onto a paper plate, whisked the maple syrup off the counter and strutted out of the kitchen, depositing the food and condiment onto the tiny table beside Britain's couch. The laid-up country's eyes darted up to France swiftly as if he had just noticed the other's presence, his arms twining around the long-haired country's sinewy midsection and squeezing in appreciation. "Thanks so much, France. Really," Britain murmured into France's stomach as he pulled away, taking his food and smothering it in maple syrup.

France ruffled Britain's choppy citrine hair as he moved his companion's legs to take a seat, his head turned away from his lover to save his stomach. Britain ate quickly, adding more and more syrup until he polished off the hamburger, setting his saturated plate back onto the table. "I would die if you weren't here, you know," he commented, an indebted grin upturning his lips as his hand found France's, fingers lacing through the other's.

"Trust me, Angleterre, I know," France turned back toward Britain, flashing him a pearly grin as he rummaged in his pocket and retrieved a miniature flashlight, holding it up. "Can we play the light game?"

Britain nodded as France scooted closer to him, pushing up the shirt that he had lent him and pressing the tepid metallic light to his stomach, clicking the switch. The developed life nestled inside Britain eagerly kicked wherever the light permeated his skin; his eyes flickered to France's in a moment of adoration before his grip on the other's hand tensed, fingertips digging into the back of France's hand. "Ah… fuck…" Britain mumbled under his breath as frigid sweat beaded against his forehead from the sudden, intense pain that engulfed his abdomen, pins and needles prickling his thighs.

France clicked off the flashlight and studied Britain's face, his iceberg eyes tightening responsively. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"P-Pain… really bad pain… help me, France," Britain's voice morphed into a screechy whine as the agonizing sensation ebbed away, his free hand gripping his swollen stomach.

France nodded, moving Britain's legs off of his lap to hop to his feet, helping his lover slowly sit up and stand, a cautious hand pressing into the small of the shorter country's back. They were able to cross the room before Britain doubled over, clutching France's arm for support. "We need to go, quickly," France reminded him as an arm coiled around Britain's shoulders and knees, hoisting the laden country into his arms and through the wide front door. "We are very lucky that you were light to begin with…!"

Britain held onto France for dear life as his companion wrenched open the unlocked backseat door of his car, laying him comfortably across the wide leather seats. France slid behind the wheel, extracting the keys from his pocket and shoving one into the ignition, turning sharply as the car hummed to life. Britain's grassy eyes squeezed shut as harrowing pain snaked up his spinal cord, nails clawing the seat that buffeted his back. The ride took hardly any time at all to his relief; he pushed himself into a sitting position and let himself out of the car, eyes open once again.

France met him with a comforting smile after turning off the automobile, his hands resting on Britain's shoulders as he directed him toward the hospital's emergency room lobby, muttering dolce French phrases in the other's ear. A haze seemed to befall the Brit as France handled the hospital's procedures: before he knew it he found himself pacing into a spacious, dimly-lit room and lowered onto the lone hospital cot, his oversized pants and shirt replaced by a thin gown. "Ah!" he cried out as his unborn child tossed around anxiously in his belly, doing nothing to quell the formidable pain that shot through him like a lightning bolt.

"You'll feel better in a moment, but before that it is going to hurt. Hold my hand," France whispered unexpectedly into Britain's ear as he helped him into a sitting position, his legs dangling off the side of the cot as the anesthesiologist parted the back of his gown, exposing his apricot skin.

Britain nodded as something shocked his spine; he screamed torturously, both of his hands squeezing France's—at that moment he was thankful France was a nation instead of a mere human, since he was sure that the strength of his hold would have broken a normal person's hand easily. "Alright, done," someone announced from behind Britain as waves of numbness radiated throughout his abdomen and thighs, keeping the pain of his intense contractions at bay.

France propped up the hospital cot as Britain lay back carefully, finally able to take a steady breath after what seemed like eons. The other flaxen-haired country perched on the edge of the bed as Britain's arms twined around him. "Bloody fucking hell, that was rough," he breathed as his head came to rest on France's shoulder, his arms falling limp around the other.

"Anesthesia works wonders, non?" France remarked as a placid smile illuminated his features, cupping Britain's face in his hands as he leaned down, his lips grazing comfortingly against the fatigued country's. "You look so tired… why not sleep? You'll need all the energy you can get."

"I will only if you hold me, you wanker," Britain demanded, his sharp, neon green eyes gradually closing as his head dropped against France's shoulder once again.

The last thing he could recall was the feel of one of his lover's arms curling around him as his free hand brushed against Britain's twitching belly, their child kicking against the center of France's broad palm.

Up until that moment, Britain realized that he had taken the wonderful process of sleep for granted. An odd sensation forced him to stir from his dreamless slumber that felt like someone had lodged a football inside his abdomen, pressing forcefully against his pelvis. He squirmed in France's grasp, his hand balling into a tight fist around the plain white sheets below him. "France… it hurts again," Britain whimpered helplessly as his eyes cracked open to find a doctor flanked by two nurses passing over the threshold into his hospital room.

France nodded, holding up a finger to Britain as his arms released the other, sliding off of the bed and skirting over to the doctor. They exchanged phrases as the nurses prepped the room; the short-haired country was only able to catch a few snippets of their conversation having to deal with "naturally," "methods," and finally "twins."

"T-Twins?" Britain blurted out as one of the nurses instructed him to lay flat on his back and spread his legs, lowering the mechanical cot. "T-There are two…?"

The doctor turned his attention to the frantic Brit and nodded, an amiable smile adorning his face. "You have nothing to worry about, Mr. England! I have delivered much more than two at a time in my day. It's a fairly simple procedure made simpler if you relax."

"I-I wasn't aware… that there were two…" Britain blubbered, his thoughts jumbling and all of the color draining from his face as France took his place beside his lover's head, clasping his hand. "H-How are we doing this?"

"We will deliver naturally unless you want to opt for a C-section. The choice is yours, really," the doctor answered matter-of-factly as his hands slipped into sterile latex gloves.

"Whichever choice will get these buggers out quicker," Britain mumbled as his head dropped against the cot's pillow, the pressurized feeling in his pelvis becoming more and more unbearable with each passing minute. "France, you're lucky to be the father instead of the mother…. Goddamn, this really fucking hurts… how in the hell am I going to be able to do this?"

Flustered carmine flooded Britain's cheeks as a contraction ripped through him, powerful enough to be felt through the numbing epidural. He cried out as the doctor situated himself between Britain's legs, talking over the pain-stricken country. "When I say push, push as hard as you can. We have to time it with the next contraction. The first baby should only take one good push if you can manage it, okay? The head is crowning already."

France nodded back at the doctor in Britain's stead, turning back to the writhing man who needed him. "You can do this, Angleterre. You've come this far, non? Just a little farther now."

Britain stared up into France's face, losing himself in the dodger blue eyes that he loved until the doctor's firm "Push" broke his abbreviated reverie. He howled as he forced something that felt like an inflated basketball out of his body, his fingertips turning white from the force of his grip on France's hand. Panting to catch his breath, France bent down and kissed his forehead, watery eyes darting to the doctor as the eloquent screech of new life broke the tense air. "Relax, our firstborn is out. That wasn't so bad, oui?"

"Y-Yeah, whatever you say," Britain managed between gasps as France moved to cut the cord, replacing himself within a minute's time.

The doctor passed the newborn to the nurse that stood beside him, who took the child somewhere off to the left. "Ready for the next one?" He asked cheerfully.

"Oh shit, here we go again…." Britain grumbled thickly from the tears that welled in his eyes as he took France's hand once again, the familiar feeling of a ball wedging itself uncomfortably in his pelvis sending waves of excruciating pain crashing over him. "Is it possible… for the second to hurt more than… the first?"

The doctor nodded, though Britain couldn't see. "That will happen sometimes. Alright, there's the contraction—push."

Britain bore down and mustered all of the force he could, attempting to expel his younger offspring. France's eyes closed from the vice grip that Britain had on his hand, fighting off the fiery pain that ignited in the middle of his palm. A stream of curses emitted from Britain in an uncharacteristic soprano voice as he stopped pushing, his heart pounding against the confines of his chest. "Another push and he'll be out, okay? Go ahead whenever you're ready," the doctor instructed.

A boy. Is the other a boy as well? The thought dispelled from Britain's brain as the pain of crowning tore through him like brushfire. He pushed again with all of his might until he felt the sphere in his pelvis dislodge, forced into the waiting doctor's hands. The fragile body followed; France disappeared for a moment to cut the second cord and returned as a bloodcurdlingly loud scream pierced the air. "Très bien, mon amour! You've done wonderfully," France murmured proudly as he claimed Britain's lips, the bellows of their children mingling harmonically in the air above them.

A nurse tapped France on the shoulder and settled his firstborn into the crook of his arm, the baby blue cap distinguishing him as a boy. He took a seat beside Britain and showed him the frail boy, noticing the long curl of champagne hair that stuck out from underneath the cap. "Matthieu!" France cooed, his thumb cautiously tracing over the newly-formed flesh of his son's cheek.

Not long after another nurse visited the couple, nestling the younger boy this time into the crook of Britain's arm. Britain pecked the tiny mottled forehead of his son as euphoric tears cascaded down his cheeks: it was bewildering to think that he had produced these two picayune lives, singlehandedly delivering them into the world. "Alfred," he stated, the name ringing distinctly in the ecstatic air.

France placed Matthew in Britain's free arm as he embraced his new family, careful not to jostle the children. He kissed his companion's forehead, nose, and then his lips, his deep royal eyes searching Britain's luminescent harlequin green. "I love you, Arthur," he whispered affectionately in the shell of Britain's ear, bringing fresh tears to the eyes of the already emotional country.

"I love you too, Francis. Even if you are a f-frog."

Fin.

Translations (if needed):
Mon amour = My love
Mais bien sûr = But of course
D'accord = Okay
Angleterre = England
Non = No
Langue = Language
Oui = Yes
Mais c'est vrai = But it's true
Je ne pense pas = I think not
Moi aussi = Me too
Mon cher = My dear
Le bébé = The baby
Très bien = Very good