Author's Note: This one-shot is the result of a request written for user, somewhereinthedarkness.

He just doesn't understand, which, is a common affair nowadays.

He can't wrap his head around how this child can be so fitful at such a simple ailment—nothing more than a toothache, really. It eludes him because he has seen this little bundle of life suffer through plagues, devastating storms, and stifling droughts that have laid his land to waste without the child emitting so much as a snivel. He had started to believe the boy to be invincible.

Yet, somehow, the human pain of teething had rattled the colony, and the tiny product of humanity chose the warm hand on his back in lieu of his bulletproof exterior.

"Oh, Alfred," England sighs because he isn't sure what else he can possibly do. He runs his fingers through the toddler's hair in anguish to offer some consolation, but it is a foreign maneuver. It has never been necessary for him to coddle the child, and now that the inevitable time has come, he feels an inadequacy in his actions.

"Don't cry. Please, don't cry."

He can murmur the same lines as much as he desires, but they will have no impact either way. The sound of America's wails fills the entire house, and neither sweet nothings nor the coral teething ring can hush him.

"What is it, my boy? Surely, the pain isn't too horrible?"

It is difficult to determine the severity of the situation, and England grows more desperate with each consecutive sob America stutters. He wonders if he should consult someone in town, but he can't risk exposing their identities, nor is he convinced that anyone will actually be able to help him. Thus, he settles on holding the toddler a tad closer to his chest and hums a lullaby instead. Maybe the child will tire himself out.

America grips England's shirt with one fist and flails his free arm around momentarily before bringing it up to his mouth to suck his thumb. It quells his bawling somewhat as his eyes blink up at the elder nation with a pitiful glower.

"We don't put our fingers in our mouths," England reprimands with a mild tone, reaching over to pull the hand away, only for America to begin crying again.

"No! No! No!" the colony chants. There is no use trying to communicate with him when he is in such a state, and his thumb is soon pressed against his aching gums a second later.

At a loss, England allows it against his better judgment. There are both fatigued, and he is not in the mood for a battle of wills. He carries America upstairs and lays him in his bed before sprawling next to him with a heavy groan of exhaustion.

He tugs a worn blanket over them and vows that he will rest his eyes for only a minute because there are errands to be tended to. When America's thumb does not leave his mouth, he can only muster a melancholy smile and a drowsy flutter of his lashes. "Peculiar child…"

"It's only a tooth."

Spending Christmas among royalty is nothing short of magical. The walls of the palace are covered with extravagant tapestries and luxurious décor, all of which seem to be very expensive and antique. Even the savory scent of dinner wafts down the corridors with ritz, leaving an air of excitement in its wake.

Yet, the commotion becomes a nuisance with extraordinary haste. The cardinal red suspenders the colony's been dressed in are too snug, and the matching bowtie only adds insult to injury as it clings to his collar. He simply isn't accustomed to dressing up in such a formal manner, and there had been very little opportunity for him to adapt to the drastic transition.

"Hold still. We want you to look your best now, don't we?"

"No, stop it!"

England clicks his tongue at him in sharp succession, a gesture which signifies America is pestering the other and will be punished if he enacts the same offense again. "I want you to behave yourself, tonight."

Traveling to London with England and Canada for the holidays had seemed like a rare treat at first, but he soon began to regret his joyful expectations. He didn't anticipate having to follow strict manners, and the increasing amount of stuffiness in the estate only serves to irritate his already volatile temper.

"Yes, England," he huffs, arching his back in pain as the elder nation fixes the knots and tangled ends of his hair.

"Remember to address me as Arthur when the guests arrive," the man reminds with a pointed glance as he scrapes at his charge's scalp with a comb. "I don't understand—Canada was an absolute angel when I tidied him up… It'll take just another moment… There! All done!"

America dashes away at once, not sparing a second lest England decides there is something else that can embellish his appearance. He barrels down the corridor and hops down the steps of the spiral staircase, opting out of sliding down the banister because he's already tried that once, and it left him with a wounded pride and a sore knee.

The early-birds have already arrived and are filtering into the ballroom, which is where the real fun is to be located. Everyone is dressed to impress, and it makes him feel quite a bit self-conscious. The billowing gowns rippling past, the crisp robes, and the lustrous shoes mock him for being lesser, proving he is an outcast. He does not belong. Everything is glamorous, traditional, and so very European; America is none of these things.

He rubs at the curious discomfort in his jaw and sneaks his way into the ballroom amidst the others because he will act the part for tonight, if only to see what life is like across the pond. After many years spent in solitude on his land, Europe is a welcome change, but it is one he will have to adjust to.

His qualms are set at ease when he encounters a familiar face.

"Matt!"

Canada wrinkles a brow at him and then manages a sheepish smile as he gravitates toward his brother. They are better together, he thinks—polar opposites with a mutual love that only siblings can possess. He will not appreciate it until it's too late. "You didn't embarrass yourself yet, right?"

"Hey! I have good manners," America asserts, rolling his eyes at the pristine manner with which his twin presents himself. "What did you let them do to you? You look too clean."

"It's a formal event. What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Parties back home are different. Everything is different."

"Different doesn't have to be bad," Canada says with a tilt of the head as his eyes wander across the ballroom. There is an unspoken fascination in his eyes, burning and seething at the culture shock.

A moment later, a firm hand makes contact with America's shoulder, and it fills the boy with relief to know that he will not have to respond to Canada's tidbit of wisdom. However, he is too slow to hide his frown from the intruder.

"What's troubling you?" England asks, squeezing his shoulder with encouragement. "I thought you might enjoy yourself. After all, it isn't often that you get the opportunity to attend such festivities."

The band begins to play a regal tune as America strains to find a way to voice his grievances. He isn't sure why he is so bothered by the atmosphere of celebration, but the inexplicable anger is impossible to ignore.

"It's nothing," he lies because the right words never find him.

England isn't pleased with his answer, but he seems to understand America's insecurities somehow anyway. There isn't very much that can be concealed from the empire, and though he will not admit it, he knows his colonies well.

He exchanges a gentle smile with both boys—his boys—because they have grown far too quickly for comfort, and he wishes to cherish the moment while he can.

"Well, then," he murmurs, clearing his throat. "I won't allow you to sulk all evening. Why don't you ask one of the young ladies here to dance?"

Alarm flashes across America's face, and he is too petrified to move as England tugs on his arm. "I can't."

"Why not?"

The young nation's cheeks flush with humiliation. "I-I don't know how to dance."

"Then, this is the perfect time to learn to waltz."

Canada snickers from beside him, but a jab in the ribs with an elbow remedies his fit of laughter. "Francis taught me how to dance years ago," he flaunts because it is quite satisfying to see America so flustered, and he will gladly take advantage of the chance to prove that he has mastered something that America is incapable of doing.

Before America can refuse, England drags him toward the center of the room and clasps the boy's right hand in his left. He has to stoop down to be within reach for the dance, but he doesn't seem to mind his ridiculous posture. "Mirror what I do," he instructs.

It is easier said than done.

"1-2-3," the man counts, taking his time so that America can catch up to his movements. When his colony stumbles, he gives him a reassuring grin and chuckles. "It's all right. Keep trying and don't rush."

It shouldn't be funny that he's a miserable pupil, but the joy is contagious, and America finds humor in his own failings. Within moments he is laughing against his will, shoulders shaking and diaphragm constricting with a merriment of his own as he accidentally steps on England's foot. The rest of the guests don't seem to matter as much anymore, and he is happy to merely share such a lighthearted moment with his mentor. They don't get to spend such simple times together anymore, and America realizes he has wanted this for many months.

"Stand on my shoes, and I'll guide us."

"But I'll dirty them."

"Oh, don't worry about that. They can be cleaned."

He complies a moment later, still recovering from a final pocket of laughter as the music swells. A pain shoots through his gums as England takes his hand, and he feels the need to massage the growing soreness, but can't find a way to do it without alerting his caretaker's attention.

The pain is unexpected, and he can't recall knocking into anything recently that might've caused it. Nevertheless, it is likely to go away on its own, so he stows his confusion aside for now.

"You're maturing," England says, and it breaks America out of his stupor. "Soon, you'll be too old for this."

He looks up into the green eyes of his mentor because they are full of safety and a somber benevolence. "Too old for what?"

"For needing family," England clarifies with a hint of sadness that leaves a heaviness on America's chest. He says the words with a deep resignation, as though he knows the future is inevitable, but it still manages to fill him with debilitating lethargy. "Promise me you won't try to become an adult too quickly, all right?"

"Okay."

They both know this is an empty promise, but it's reassuring while the memory of it lasts.

The music begins to die for an intermission, so America starts to bound away, halting only when England maintains a grip on his hand.

"Not so fast! Come back here for a moment."

Knitting his brows together, America moves to stand directly in front of England, head craned upward to meet his gaze. "Yeah?"

"I haven't gotten a good look at you in nearly seven months," the man mutters, brushing back the child's hair and scanning his form with a critical expression. A glimmer of mischief sparks in his eyes when he says, "Is that a mustache?"

Too easily swayed to know any better, America glows with enthusiasm. "Really? Where?"

"Before you know it you'll have a face of fur," England warns, pinching the bottom of America's cheek before finally sending him off. "And what will we do with you then?"

A wince fleets over America's features at the pressure against his aching mouth, but it fades as abruptly as it appears. He's smiling again within seconds. "I can live a life in the wild!"

"We'll see about that. Now, go and play with Canada while I greet some of our guests."

He finds Canada tucked in a corner of the ballroom, timidity getting the best of him. Never a sociable person among crowds, he has a talent for blending in among others with an effortless camouflage. America, however, is accustomed to looking in the shadows for his twin, and he doesn't try to shake him out of his introversion as others have time and time again.

"You looked like you were having fun. So much for trying to act miserable," Canada teases when he approaches him, bashful demeanor dissolving around his brother as though he is a completely different person—reborn and unable to contain his exuberance.

America scoffs and gives Canada a playful whack on the head. "I wasn't acting. Wanna sneak out into the garden until dinner? I don't really want to stand around here anymore, it's boring."

"Fine, but you're taking the blame if we get caught."

"I know. What are brothers for?" America grins as they jostle their way out of the muggy and oppressive confinement of the room. He can't picture how he'd endure such gatherings if not for the company of Canada, and it's wonderful how he can be persuaded to test the limits placed against them with a little prodding.

A burst of fresh air assaults them as they enter the garden, shivering against the cool breeze on their skin. The stars are already out, looming over London with grit and poise as the North American twins perch themselves against the gates of the estate.

"I've got something for us," Canada suddenly recalls, rummaging through his pocket and removing two cookies covered with a handkerchief. "The caterer let me grab some when you were talking with England."

Sporting a smile speckled with dimples, America brings a hand to his heart, signaling oncoming theatrics. "I've taught you well," he proclaims, snatching one of the cookies and chomping on it, only to spit it out a second later with a spluttering cough.

"What's wrong? Does it taste bad?"

He sucks in a large breath because the pain sloshing around in his teeth is agonizing, and all he can do is let out gasps of disbelief as Canada hovers around him, unsure of how to help.

"I'll get England!"

"No!" America snaps, cradling the right side of his face in the palm of his hand. "I'm okay. I just bit down too hard."

Canada isn't convinced in the slightest, but he doesn't want his brother to be upset with him for snitching, so he settles on a displeased scowl. "You should tell someone or all of your teeth with fall out."

"No, they won't!" America retorts, though he doesn't say this with much confidence. "I don't need anybody's help."

He knows he shouldn't hide his ailments, but his pride won't allow for displays of weakness. Whatever this strange injury is, he's sure that he will find a way to fix it on his own, and there's no reason for him to bother others with it.

It soon becomes apparent, however, that dinner is going to be a major stumbling block in his master-plan. He seats himself in the dining room among important members of the nobility, reminding himself of all of his table manners as England preoccupies himself with being a good host. Canada sits across from him, knowingly sneaking glances at America to see what he plans to do next.

Everyone is mingling and exchanging in small-talk as the food is served on fancy platters, and America mourns hungrily over the meal with the grim realization that he will not be able to consume it. All he can do is push the cuisine around on his plate, making it seem as though he has eaten some.

Canada only shakes his head at the ordeal, weighing his options as America occasionally strokes the side of his face in anguish. As much as he jokes with his brother, he really can't stand to see him suffering in silence, so he shifts his eyes between England and America a few times, devising a plan of his own.

"Hey, Alfred," he says just loud enough to be heard by England. "These carrots are really good… I hear vegetables are a delicacy in England nowadays. You should try some!"

Shooting his head upward at the remark, America sends his brother a dark glare. Canada nary utters a single syllable during most banquets, so how can he happily discuss English eating habits at the most inopportune moment?

"No, thanks."

Once England's attention is seized, it doesn't take long for him to make his own comments. "Alfred, you've barely touched your food."

It's more scolding than anything else, because England has told the boys many times that leaving food on a plate is not only wasteful, but rude.

Thus, America is left with no choice other than to grimace and gnaw on a carrot at Canada's suggestion, and he can't conceal the obvious discomfort in his features as he does so. He drops his fork and holds his face in his hands, letting out a terrible groan that garbles out of his throat.

"Alfred!"

England crouches beside his chair immediately, worry creasing his forehead as he rests a hand on the colony's knee. "What is it?"

"Nothing," America assures, though the tears in his eyes don't help his cause.

"Please, excuse us."

After another apologetic look at the guests, England guides America out of the room with a sternness, one hand on the boy's back as they exit the dining room and retreat into the lounge.

"Sit."

It's an instruction that America doesn't dare to disobey, so he settles himself in one of the armchairs with a pout as England leans forward to address him.

"I'm going to ask again, and I want you to be honest with me," the man cautions as he stamps a hand against America's forehead to check for fever. "What's wrong?"

Wrenching the words out is painful enough in and of itself, and America feels drained from the sheer effort. "I don't know… I think it's something with my teeth."

England seems surprised by the news, clearly expecting to elicit a different response. Nonetheless, he raises a hand and draws down America's chin to get him to open his mouth. "Let me see."

"No! I don't want you to touch it!"

"I'm not going to do anything to it right now. I just need to see where it hurts."

"No!"

"Alfred…"

"You can't make me!" the boy wails as he kicks his feet against the armchair in frustration. He can bear having scrapes on his knees cleaned and herbal salves being put on his skin, but his teeth are untouchable. They signify unchartered territory, and he doesn't want anyone getting close to them.

England is losing his patience, and America can tell that he is mustering great strength to keep his temper in check. Fighting over the matter won't lead to a solution.

"Alfred, I can't help fix it if you won't even let me see what's wrong," England reasons, patting his shoulder. "There's no reason to make such a fuss over it. Maybe I can help, hmm?"

America digs his fingers into the fabric of the chair and eventually gives a reluctant nod. "Don't make it hurt!"

It's a minor victory, but an important one. The elder nation tilts the boy's head back and opens the aching mouth, sighing when he finally sees what the trouble is. "Your tooth is rotting."

"What?" America asks with a squeak, thoroughly horrified. "What do you mean it's rotting? Am I going to die?"

England laughs and clicks his tongue before ruffling the boy's hair for good measure. "No, lad, you're not going to perish from this. It's a common problem among growing nations, and it's only affecting your primary set of teeth. A new and permanent tooth will grow in its place, but this one will have to be pulled before you get an infection."

"Pulled?"

"We'll discuss it before you go to bed for the night," England promises, pressing his forehead against America's fondly. "My, how dramatic you can be! You should feel much better by tomorrow. Until then, why don't we get you some soup from the banquet? It'll help with the pain."

The suggestion is appreciated when the warm liquid numbs the worst of the agony, and America is actually quite thrilled when he is sent to bed early for the night. The guests begin to disperse, and by the time Canada joins him in his room, he wants nothing but to wallow in sadness for the remainder of eternity in the comfort of his blanket.

"Are we still among the living?" England asks with a mocking smirk as he enters the boys' temporary bedroom with some unnerving looking gauze. "You wouldn't have this problem if you weren't so prideful. Nations usually experience toothaches when they're anxious about how others view them."

America crosses his arms as England sits on the mattress beside him. "I'm not anxious!"

"It's no matter now," the man murmurs, directing a thoughtful expression at his colony. It's intriguing how impressionable the boy is, and he wonders if this will hinder him or help him in the future. "You're in luck, poppet, I've pulled a number of teeth before. However, I'm hoping Canada will be able to lend me a hand."

At the mention of his name, the other twin lets out a tiny grumble. "Do I have to?"

"Don't you want to help your brother?"

"No, not really," Canada replies with a crooked smile before hopping out of bed to assist in the operation. "What do I need to do?"

Rolling out a wad of the linen gauze, England rips a square of it off and fishes around for a book on the shelf beside America's bed. When he retrieves the story he's looking for, he passes it to Canada. "You're going to read Aesop's 'The Old Hound' to us aloud."

"But why?" the boy asks.

"Because a story can cure many ills," England explains and pulls down at America's chin once more to open his mouth. He takes a second to flash the colony a wink and a warm smile. It's nice to be in the man's company when he isn't stressed or in a temperamental mood, and America accepts the gentle reassurances. "And you, America, are going to close your eyes and listen to the tale."

Neither boy argues with the idea. They're both curious to see what tricks England has up his sleeves, and America will do anything to rid himself of the throbbing in his gums, no matter how silly the remedy seems. So, he closes his eyes as Canada begins to read, flinching ever so slightly as he feels fingers poking their way around his teeth.

"A Hound, who in the days of his youth and strength had never yielded to any beast of the forest, encountered in his old age a boar in the chase. He seized him boldly by the ear, but could not retain his hold because of the decay of his teeth, so that the boar escaped."

There is a flutter of fear in his stomach as the tooth is yanked with a twist, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as he thinks it should.

"His master, quickly coming up, was very much disappointed, and fiercely abused the dog. The Hound looked up and said: 'It was not my fault, master; my spirit was as good as ever, but I could not help mine infirmities.'"

Before he can even dare to open his eyes, gauze is settled over the injury.

"I rather deserve to be praised for what I have been, than to be blamed for what I am."

England pats his hand in appraisal and sweeps the duvet up and over his startled form, tucking him in for the night. "There, it was an easy fix. All that's needed now is a good night's sleep."

The empire thanks Canada for reading the short tale and tucks him in as well, feeling somewhat consoled at the discovery that he is still needed by the aging twins. "I'll be right across the hall if there's a problem."

"Thank you," America sighs as the man snuffs out the candles in the room. After some hesitation, he reaches out his arms expectantly for a long-awaited hug.

England obliges with a tired chuckle, embracing the child and depositing a small kiss on his brow that spreads a glowing heat throughout his chilled figure. "You don't need to thank me, love, and I trust you'll come to me whenever there's an issue, yes? Regardless of the situation or how preoccupied I may seem, you are always welcome to seek me out for help."

"I know."

He doesn't want to remove his hold on the boy, but he knows it has to be done, so he allows the hollowness in his chest to fill him as America lies down to sleep.

"They're just teeth," he whispers as he shuts the door and makes his way downstairs to clean up.

"Unbelievable! You haven't changed one bit!"

"I told you that you didn't have to come!"

"Of course I had to, otherwise you wouldn't have shown up!"

America can't counter that last remark because it holds merit, so he simply storms up the block while England trails behind him with disgruntled noises of complaint.

"I'm sick of you treating me like a child!"

"Then maybe you should stop acting like one!"

The bickering is never-ending, even as they reach their destination, upon which point America tries to find a way to avoid imminent torture. "I think I'll reschedule."

"I didn't drive us all the way here for you to miss your appointment!" England growls, ringing the bell to the office and pushing the door open when they are buzzed in. "After you."

Not wanting to risk making a fool of himself now, America sulks for only a second longer before stepping inside with a murderous glare. He can feel England's eyes on his back as he signs himself in and takes a seat, procuring a magazine to focus on while the elder nation stares at him with clear disapproval.

"Must you do this every time you go to the dentist?"

America ignores the question and flips to an article about natural remedies for cancer prevention. When he can no longer stand the anticipation, he makes a move to leave, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his upper arm.

"And where do you think you're going now?" England asks him with a scowl. "You're on probation for the next hour."

America tries to shake off the hand to no avail. He doesn't need to be supervised. "I left something in the car."

"Sit."

"But I need to—"

He's just beginning to formulate a more plausible excuse, but it's already too late.

"Alfred Jones?"

England gives him a pointed look and stands up to urge him to move from the spot where he has planted his feet. "Go on, you dolt."

He's not sure what it is about his teeth that makes him so paranoid about them being touched, but it's been a problem for many years, and it isn't a habit he can merely cast aside at will. He's considered the possibility that a past traumatic event may have scarred him for life, but England has sworn multiple times that no such trauma ever occurred and that it's been an issue since he was a toddler.

As a result, he ventures forward with his mountain of nerves, palms sweating and stomach rolling as he is led into one of the exam rooms and begrudgingly reclines in the awaiting chair. He's told the dentist will arrive in a few minutes, but it's not welcome news in the least, and he'd prefer as long of a delay as possible. After all, he needs the extra time to compile his will.

"It's only a cleaning—it'll be painless."

America jerks in his seat at the voice, unaware of the fact that England has followed him into the room. He had expected the nation to wait outside, and he isn't sure if he is pleased or bothered by his presence. "Why don't you have this problem?"

England shrugs his shoulders and leans against the counter, arms folded across his chest. "I'm a very self-assured person, unlike some."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've told you before—you're too concerned with what others think of you. If you weren't so insecure, you wouldn't have such dental ailments," his old mentor claims, meeting America's eyes with that all-knowing and smug expression of his. "You know, Alfred, you can feign courage and confidence, but that won't mask the problem."

There isn't much he can say to that, so he relishes in the silence for a while as he aligns his thoughts. "Thanks."

"Whatever for?"

"For everything, but mostly for understanding, I guess, and for calling me out," America murmurs, uncomfortable with expressing appreciation toward the man who always seems to get under his skin. "If you tell anyone about this though, I'll send in my troops, so watch out."

He gets a scoff and a laugh in response. "Oh, believe me, I'm already quivering in horror."

The cream-colored room suddenly seems less threatening, and America relaxes his tense shoulders at the revelation. "You're right though, I'm being an idiot. I'm so scared of being vulnerable that I cause my own demise with all of these emotional ups-and-downs," he notes with a chuckle, unable to repress the sadness in his eyes. "I didn't ask to have so many people looking to me for guidance. I'm not a leader of the Free World. Half of the time I don't even know what I'm doing. I was just a crazy kid who was a little too affected by the Enlightenment and decided it'd be a good idea to break away from the empire. Then, suddenly, boom, I'm making decisions left and right and holding the fate of millions in my careless hands."

"You could've turned out worse," England teases and steps closer to grasp America's shoulder. They've both had their fair share of troubles and experiences over the centuries, and it's evident in their scintillating gazes. "And you're not in this alone."

The burdens he's been clinging to slip through his fingers, and he lets out a sigh at their loss. "Yeah, old man. You're always hanging about and breathing down my neck, so that's something."

"Then again, maybe if you would just floss more often—"

"Hilarious."

"God knows your hygiene is abhorrent."

"That's not true!"

England cracks a grin and ruffles his hair as though he is nothing but a little boy again, unaware of all of the hardships lingering in the distance—days before he witnessed the bloodshed, tears, injustices, and oppression that could mar a life once so sweet.

"They're just teeth, America."