Hello, my peeps! Long time no update!

For those of you wondering about Dark Intentions, I still haven't completely recovered from the mishap in November 2012, when my flash drive took a nose dive and refused to work. I have the next chapter in progress and am in need of looking over it again.

What has been happening in the meantime? Well, I've published two stories to Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble NOOK under the penname Elise K. Ra'sha. They're called Portal to Gaming (Book One of my Arc of Fantasy series) and The King and Queen of Wands. I'm quite proud of those accomplishments.

That said, I do not own Hetalia, and these are late for America and Canada's birthdays. Please enjoy!

If there was anything anyone could say about America, it was that he knew how to celebrate his birthday. His country's flags hung from every building, every lamp post, and miniature ones were in the hands of every citizen. Many of the people – a mixed variety of ethnic groups ranging from English to Russian – also painted their faces. France saw flags and stars, and the letters "U.S.A." covering cheeks and foreheads of the young and old alike. It was a day of national pride for many of these people, and everyone looked forward to the evening's festivities – fireworks over the Statue of Liberty.

Of course, the fireworks weren't the only signs of celebration. In the morning, a parade wound through the city, people lining the streets to watch. There were carnival rides and bouncy castles for everyone to enjoy. Children with no paint on their faces ran after each other with water cannons and balloons filled with the liquid. Currently, a band on a large, makeshift stage played music, rock music. Some of the songs were, naturally, patriotic in nature, but it wasn't surprising. It was also quite enjoyable and infectious. Many of the people, in addition to the face paintings, wore beads and shirts in the country's colors. France liked to believe that the colors America used for his flag – red, white, and blue - were inspired by his country. He couldn't say it because he wasn't the only nation with red, white, and blue in his, but he still liked to believe it anyway. Whether England liked to admit it or not, France had played a hand in the shaping of America, indeed even Canada. He knew that he had.

Around France, people were cooking with grills. The intoxicating scent of meats roasting over the flames wafted towards him, and France felt himself drooling. Oddly enough, in his mind, the food smelled good. He tried to avoid eating anything America or his people cooked since he'd been raised by England . . . and England, to this day, couldn't cook a decent meal to save his life.

From the smell of things, however, something had changed, and France found himself wandering over to where America and Canada were goofing off, for lack of a better term. The older of the two had his brother by the hands and was whirling around with a huge smile on his face and laughing. Even Canada was smiling and laughing. France feared for a moment that America would accidentally let go of his younger brother and send him flying.

It was an unfounded fear. Once he decided he'd had enough of spinning, America just took off at a dead run, Canada in tow. Both were still laughing and smiling. It was still a sign of how young they still were compared to the other nations, but it was a day of celebration. They were allowed to be the youngsters they truly were.

When France reached the tables where America and Canada were set up, the smell of cooking beef, chicken, and bratwursts on the grill overpowered his senses. His mouth watered as he thought of how tasty they would be once they were on a plate and heading towards his mouth. America had certainly come a long way when it came to cooking. On some nearby picnic tables were a variety of other foods – potato salads, regular salads, pasta salads, chips, and cakes. Naturally, the frosting on the cakes were in the colors of red, white, and blue, edible imitations of America's flag . . . except for one.

It was a simple square cake with white frosting and red on the borders. In the center was a large red maple leaf. France paused, confused, and stared.

"Doesn't it look great?" America said, running up to him. "I told the baker to make it like that. Did you know that Canada's birthday was three days ago? I'd called him and sent him a card before that, but I thought it'd be nice if he had a cake while he was here."

France blinked, surprised. He'd known when Canada had declared himself an independent nation. He remembered it very well. He just hadn't expected America to remember such a date.

"I deed know," France said. "I just deedn't expect . . ."

"It's his favorite, too," America continued. "Maple with bacon crumbles! Doesn't that sound tasty?"

"Er, lovely," France said. He felt himself turning green at the thought of eating such a cake. Maybe America hadn't outgrown England's horrible cooking lessons after all.

"Yeah!" America laughed. "I thought it was really gross at first. Who would put maple syrup and bacon in a cake, right? But it's really yummy! The baker didn't even blink when I told him what kind of cake I wanted. I guess there are other weird flavors out there." Then the smile disappeared from his face, and his blue eyes flashed with sternness. "He gets to cut his cake and get the first piece. Those are the rules."

"O-of course," France stammered, his hands up in a placating manner. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Good. Now," America said, the smile returning to his face. France wouldn't admit it, but the younger nation could be as equally if not scarier than Russia and Germany combined. He was relieved to see the smile return, "what would you like to eat? I've got hamburgers . . ."

'Naturally,' France thought.

"Steaks, chicken, brats . . . Oh! That reminds me!" America hurried away, towards the grill.

France found himself making a face at the thought of eating the brats or the burgers. After hearing about the bacon maple cake, he wasn't even sure he wanted to eat anything America had on the table. Who knew what the salads actually tasted like? And the chips were undoubtedly greasy and tasteless . . . France wondered at his sanity for joining America in his celebrations.

"You look a little green there, old chum."

France scowled a little as England approached. The bastard was undoubtedly smirking.

"Is there zomething a matter?" France tried to act nonchalant. He hated how England could get under his skin sometimes. It was more fun when he could rile the bastard up.

"Hm, no," England said. The smirk was in his voice. "It's just that . . . you look a little green . . . in the face . . ."

"Bacon and maple in zhe cake."

"Ah yes . . . those two are a strange lot." England stood next to him. "But they are having fun today . . ."

"Yes . . . they are . . ."

France glanced at America, who was serving up food to the other nations who'd gathered with them to celebrate the day. While no one seemed to be overly fond of hamburgers, some of them were taking the browned patties. They were smiling and laughing. If they were afraid of what America was serving them, they didn't show it. Maybe . . . just maybe he could be a little brave.

"Ah, what zhe hell," he said. "How often iz it two nations celebrate their birthdayz at the same time? It iz nice of America to do what he has for Canada . . ."

"You mean a maple bacon birthday cake?" England shook his head. "Even I wouldn't have thought of such a thing . . ."

"I'm zurprized," France said. "It zoundz to me like something you would make."

"You're disgusting."

"I dare you to try it after Canada has had his piece." France smirked.

"I will if you will . . ."

"Whatz zhe matter, shorty? Zcared?"

"I could ask you the same thing . . ."

They would have argued . . . in fact, France wanted to start arguing with England. It was one of his favorite pastimes. However, as he opened his mouth to say something snide, he felt someone staring at him. It was a powerful gaze, one that said if he started something, he'd pay a most serious consequence.

England obviously felt it, too, for he'd paused, as if someone held a gun to his back. Both turned to see where the source of the glare originated, and they immediately smiled and waved. At his grill, America watched them, the smile no longer on his face. His eyes were ice and daggers, a sign he wasn't about to tolerate anyone spoiling his and Canada's celebrations. It was a time to be happy, to remember everything they'd fought for in wars past, and to honor the troops who'd fallen in the name of freedom. Independence came at a price, and the wisdom of that knowledge shone in those blue eyes. France felt chastised in an instant, chastised and ashamed for wanting to argue with his quasi-rival and ally. Most of the nations gathered didn't look in their direction. Instead, they conversed amongst themselves, still smiling, still laughing. Canada, however, noticed where his older brother's gaze was and looked at them. He, too, appeared displeased and frowned at them, as if he were disappointed in them for behaving like spoiled children. France wasn't sure which he felt was worse – Canada's displeasure or America's death ray glare of doom. In those scant movements, the two weren't the youngsters they'd been just several minutes before; they were genuine adults, spitting images of each other, and wiser for everything they'd endured. It was a rare trait for countries so young – America's appearance was that of a man in his early twenties, Canada in his late teens.

It stunned France to see such . . . growth and maturity in the two who didn't always get along with each other. Granted, Canada and America never came to blows the way he and England had over the centuries, but they were just as different in their personalities as night and day. Canada, so quiet and unobtrusive, and America, opinionated and fearless (he didn't even fear Russia and Germany), and they were showing a united front, whether or not they realized it.

"I zhink," he said, his voice low and a smile creeping onto his face, "zhat we have done zomething amazing with zhose two, no?"

"We?" England echoed.

"Aye," France said. "We . . . I have had as much influence on zhem as you . . ."

"I suppose so . . ."

"Come, shorty," France said. "I zhink I shall have a hamburger. How about you?"

"Hmm . . . well . . ." England looked away. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt . . . they are combining their celebrations for today."

"And it will be wonderful indeed."

When they saw that he and England weren't going to start a fight with each other, both America and Canada relaxed their stances. The joy returned to their faces, and America served a burger to Canada.

So it went for the next few hours, until the sun set and the fireworks began, a display that lit up the night for over forty-five minutes. It ultimately was a simple celebration, yet no less amazing. The spirit of America and his people filled the air, a tangible essence that pressed against the flesh. France observed as more people than not saluted any and all troops they saw in the park, giving hugs and offering their thanks for everything the soldiers endured. There were no doubts about the love America had for his people and they for what he embodied to them.

And the burger wasn't as bad as he'd feared. France just didn't dare admit it.