America is nervous. France can tell even from across the room; something in the way he squares his shoulders, and the way his hands fist and clench awkwardly by his sides. The developing nation is sweetly rustic, dressed in a fur cap and leather jerkin.

"Your messenger was très charmant, l'Amérique. I have decided to hear you out," France drawls. He motions America to approach his throne and then crosses his arms, raising his eyebrows with an air of pleased anticipation. America steps haltingly forward, tired and weak. His pale skin is dotted with bruises.

"I need your help," America grinds out. He bites his lip, unwilling to look at France. Unwilling to admit weakness. France smirks, sitting forward and spreading his arms in a sign of good-natured benevolence.

"Then you shall have it, ma chère." France steps down from the throne, ermine cloak trailing behind him. He embraces America, holding him in his arms for a long moment before letting go. "I am so, so sorry for the hurts England has visited upon you, child."

"I am not a child!" America nearly shouts. "Not any longer. England thinks he can tell me what to do but he cannot. It is not fair!" America is trembling with barely suppressed emotion, and his eyes begin to fill with tears.

France places his hands on America's shaking shoulders and gazes down into the once-colony's face. America is in an awkward, in-between stage, a sort of adolescence between protectorate and nation. He is too thin for his height, his limbs are gangly, and his hands and feet are too big for the rest of his body. One of America's eyes has been blacked, and he stares balefully back at France with an indignant squint.

"So you are an adult, are you, Amérique? All grown up and aching for independence?" France asks, "Are you prepared to pay the price for my assistance?"

"Yes!" America nods fervently, wiping his tears on the back of his hand. France studies the not-quite-nation closely for a moment before striking. One hand snakes towards America's groin, and the other presses the small of his back as France leans forward to kiss him.

America makes a surprised noise in the back of his throat, clawing at France's chest, struggling to escape. But America is tired from fighting England (Oh, Angleterre!) and France knows this and he uses it to his advantage. He presses America against his throne, leaning over him, hands on either side of the aspiring nation's face.

"What are you doing?" America yells, kicking at France's shins half-heartedly. H

"You claim to have grown up, ma petite Amérique, but I see you have not. For a grown nation would be ready to sacrifice all for the safety of his country and his people," France whispers, wedging his knee in between America' quivering legs. "Are you so happy with big brother Angleterre that you refuse to do even this small thing to free yourself?"

"I hate England," America says, turning his head. "I-I want him to respect me. To see me strong and on my own. If this is it what it takes then so be it."

"Oh, ma chère," France murmurs. He kisses the trembling almost-nation's forehead, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth, the curve of his neck. France is fascinating by the way America's eyelashes flutter so nervously, fascinated by the tear trickling down his face into golden hair. He loosens the ties of his breeches, leaning forward so that their bodies are flush together.

"Together, mon petit soldat, we will defeat England," France promises, slipping his hand into America's breeches, who stiffens and looks at the ceiling, biting his lips to muffle a moan.

And this, Angleterre bien-aimée , is your very first loss.