I am hoping to include as many nations as possible over the course of these installments. Some of them have a strong fanbase, so I hope that I portray them well enough to please everyone. These are being based around important events in American history - give or take a few years prior or past. Historical facts will be mentioned at the end. I hope that you enjoy!


World Conference – 1778

America hurried through the corridors at a run, the fabric of his blue military jacket flapping. It was his first visit to the conference after declaring his independence. While a few nations argued that America did not yet qualify as a nation (mainly England), the majority had decided that he would be recognized until the Revolution made the final victor known. Unfortunately, he had no real experience doing this on his own. So far it had been a disastrous debut.

His ship had been delayed due to bad weather. They had to redirect their course to avoid a squall. America spent the entire trip in his cabin, seasick. He'd been unable to relax since leaving his homeland. There was still a war going on. It was a battle for his freedom, and here he was on his way to a meeting in Europe. He would never have come if not for Washington's persistent urgings. They needed to build strong diplomatic relations if they were going to have any hope of overthrowing British rule.

There had been no carriages waiting at the dock. He'd had to wait. Giving directions to the driver had been hard, since America himself didn't really know where in France he was supposed to go. He told the driver the address and hoped for the best. Now he had missed the first day of the conference, and was late for the start of the second. His first impression was a failure.

Voices were buzzing behind a set of doors. Judging by the chaotic volume of the overlapping arguments, he'd reached the right place. America smoothed his hair down, straightening his uniform so that he looked presentable and not like he'd just run three whole blocks to get there. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly in order to build up the courage that he needed. Washington was not here to advise him on what to do. He was a nation now. He had to have the strength to speak his own mind as a representative of himself and his people.

America pulled open the door, quietly stepping inside. No one even noticed his arrival yet. They were squabbling at each other across a long table. It wasn't until he pulled the door shut behind him and approached their gathering that some of them caught sight of him. America grew uncomfortable as their arguments fell silent, a stunned hush settling over the assembly. Several pairs of eyes turned his way and pinned the young man in place. He spread his hands out apologetically. "S-sorry that I'm so late. The Atlantic hasn't been very kind to me lately."

One particular stare was drilling into him. America pointedly ignored that portion of the table. He was ready to face these foreign nations, sure, but he wasn't yet ready to face the one he knew all too well. America felt some relief when the severe looking man he recalled from his visit to London's conference stood up to greet him, extending a hand. "We are glad to have you, late arrival aside. Welcome to the table, America. I am Germany – please, take a seat. I believe that a spot was saved in anticipation of your arrival."

"Really? That was so thoughtful." America's smile was full of sincere pleasure. He located his empty space at the table. Thankfully, it was far enough away that he could avoid the awkward confrontation with England. The young man skirted along behind a few occupied chairs. He ended up sitting between a nation that was fast asleep and the friendly brown-haired man that he had spoken to years ago.

Northern Italy recognized him right away. He beamed at the young America, clasping the man's hand in both of his as he pumped it vigorously. "Ahhh, America! It's Italy again – do you remember me?"

"Of course. The man with the pasta and the art, right?" America asked warmly. The other nation's enthusiasm was hard to resist. "You know I did some research when I returned home about your artistic culture. I'd be interested to hear more about it after the meeting, if you have some time."

"Oh! Oh! I would be happy to make time to talk to you about it, Americaaaa!"

At the head of the table, Germany cleared his throat. That managed to quiet the Italian down. America noticed that another nation that looked remarkably like Northern Italy was glowering at him from the opposite side of his cheerful doppelganger. That was… Southern Italy? He forced a taut smile back at that sour face, before shifting his eyes to Germany as the towering nation began to speak again.

Their topic of discussion involved something in the eastern part of Europe. Some nations were fighting others – that sounded like a familiar story. Yet America was surprised to hear how many skirmishes were going on throughout Europe. It sounded like they really enjoyed fighting. The main concern was not that there were fights taking place – apparently that was business as usual in Europe – but the fact that trade routes were being compromised and inconveniencing other nations.

America did his best to pay attention. There were probably valuable bits of information to take back with him involving the affairs of the Old World. As it progressed on, though, with only a few protests from warring nations, America's attention began to stray because as hard as he tried to ignore it, he couldn't shake the weight of that stare. America tried to memorize the pattern of the wood on the tabletop. He recited the Declaration, word for word, in his head. Then the nation on his other side let out a loud snore that made him jump. America gave him a look of concern, his eyes shifted slightly, and he was ensnared.

England's green eyes refused to waver. He was paying no more attention to Germany's words than America had been. England was dressed in his red military uniform, the same as America. The other man's face was unreadable. America stared back at him without judgment. He had not come here for a confrontation with England. They weren't on opposite sides of the battlefield right now – just on opposite sides of a table, in a forum where fighting would have come with severe sanctions against both their nations.

He had not seen England in person since the formal declaration of war two years ago. England had not changed in the slightest. America, however, had grown that much taller, larger, shaking the last shadows of childhood to become the young man that he was now. He would face his rival like a man. England's troops had been giving his patriots a brutal fight so far – but America was disinclined to show him the slightest trace of concern. It surprised him when England's eyes retreated first. America's gaze lingered on him just a little longer, then returned to the head of the table.

After an hour with little progress, they were given a break for lunch. America stood up from his chair, stretching his limbs out. His muscles were sore. He would have dismissed it as a result of having been in his seat for so long, but America knew better. There was a war happening on his soil. His hand twitched; the muscles in his palm had begun to spasm a few minutes ago, quite beyond his control. America brought it up in front of him to watch the subtle movements under his skin. It was fascinating, and disturbing. This is what he was to expect? It was better than some of the worse pains he'd suffered since the war had started.

Someone approached him and America looked up in alarm, expecting to see England seek him out. He wasn't terribly relieved to see that it was France. Still, he did owe the other nation some courtesy. "Ah. Um, bon-bonjour, France."

France laughed at his attempt to speak the language. "Your accent is atrocious, mon ami. A good try, though!" France fit an arm around America's shoulders, the younger nation being guided along through the crowd by the pressure of France's embrace. It was leading him further away from England, who he caught a glimpse of and indeed looked like he intended to try to catch up to the young man. France's presence acted as a deterrent. England launched into conversation with a startled masked man instead. As they reached the door, France whispered into his ear. "It seems that we have shaken your shadow for now. What would you say to sharing lunch with your big brother France, hm?"

"Well, I can't say that I have any other plans." America admitted. "I haven't even checked into my room yet. It's been… it's been a trying time."

"Not just your trip, I would imagine." France said sympathetically. He let his arm drop from around America's shoulders, pressing a hand to the small of the younger nation's back instead to steer him in the right direction. "Though I am curious: How did you like the gifts we sent over?"

"Gifts?" The question confused America. "Oh! The…gifts. Yes, they've been very helpful. I just wish that our mutual acquaintance would stop ruining them." France had been referring to the secretly supplied donations the nation had provided to America for the war with Britain. The ships, money and men had been a needed blessing. However, the British forces had cut through most of those already just two years in.

France nodded absently. "Oui. You know, I did have a thought about that. Your big brother France decided that there was more that he wanted to do for you, America. England has been causing many problems for me lately – as well as problems for a few others. Now that you are here, I thought that it would be a good time to introduce you to a couple of my friends. It just so happens that we will be having lunch together and here I am conveniently inviting you to attend."

"I am here conveniently accepting your invitation." America chuckled quietly. He was curious to know what friends France was referencing. The young man gave himself over to France's lead completely. This was precisely what he had come to the conference to do. If he could persuade more allies to join his cause then he would be one step closer to earning a victory and his freedom.

They entered into an adjoining chamber. This was clearly intended to host the nations during their lunch break. Several tables were scattered throughout the area, dressed in crisp white cloths, silverware glinting beside delicate porcelain plates. It was meant to display the finery of France, which served its purpose as far as America was concerned. He didn't feel free to touch anything. As he passed close to the tables, America's eyes were dazzled. It looked like some kind of royal banquet – and here he was, feeling self-conscious in his humble military uniform.

France sensed that the younger nation was a little overwhelmed. "Do you like it, America? We tend to live like kings here in my country. The art of a fine meal is how well it's been dressed. Naturally, as I am the host, and you are my guest, we have the best table reserved."

Attendants were waiting on hand as France brought him to a table towards the corner of the chamber. It was elevated from the rest of the room so that they had to take a step up onto the landing. A delicate fence acted as a barrier to separate the table from all the others, providing an illusion of privacy. There were several more places to sit than the ones they had passed. France was clapping lightly with a flutter of lace. "Come, come. Wine for my American friend, s'il vous plait." He gestured for America to sit.

France flipped back the tails of his long jacket as he sat, scooting up close to the table so that he could fold his elbows on it. He smiled as America opted to take the chair beside him. The young nation looked at the older with uncertainty. "Are we… really allowed to drink here? I thought that this was meant to be a business affair."

"My dear America," France responded with a laugh in his voice, "some of the best business ventures that have ever been conducted have been between men who were too full of wine to care what they traded and too drunk to remember what they'd lost. I never talk business without at least one glass in me first."

"That seems…rather irresponsible." The young man murmured as one of the attendants began to pour him red wine out of an aged bottle.

Those words made France throw his head back in a powerful laugh. It shook his entire body, a hand slapping lightly on the table in his amusement. He recovered himself, the laughter eroding away into light little chuckles as France wiped at the corners of both eyes. "Ah, America. I forget sometimes that that British snob raised you. That disapproval sounded so very much like him. You are too adorable."

"Eh, France? What's the joke that's got you braying over here?" A new voice entered their conversation, gravelly and full of arrogance.

America saw that another nation was joining them at the table. He was dressed in a dark uniform that had several layers of fabric cloaking his body. The man plucked his hat off his head and handed it to a waiting attendant on France's other side. As he began to unbuckle the heavy cloak from around his shoulders, red eyes were appraising America with only mild interest. America had seen this man, briefly, before. It was kind of hard to forget this fellow – his strange appearance was quite memorable. He gave his cloak over to the waiting attendant and dragged out a chair without removing his eyes from the young nation.

America wondered if the man were going to eat him. He looked on the feral side. America forced himself to smile politely back as France introduced them. "Prussia, so good of you to join us! You have not met our young friend America, have you?"

"England's upstart, right?" The albino sneered. It looked natural on his face. "I heard a rumor that one of that pest's colonies were acting up. So this is the one, huh?" He looked America over, clearly unimpressed. "Have you ever fought in a war before, boy?"

Trying not to bristle at being called 'boy', America shook his head. "No, not on my own. England led efforts for a few skirmishes on my land. This is the first that I've ever done this on… such a scale." His eyes dropped to the table. "Though I have studied quite a bit about warfare and how to fight."

"Studied?" Prussia's face split in half as he unleashed a loud laugh that traveled clear across the chamber. America must have been pretty amusing today – he was causing everyone to laugh. His smile turned into more of a grimace as he watched Prussia slap a knee. "Oh, that's rich. That's rich! So the idiots in your homeland have decided that their best chance for victory lies with a bookworm? Against the British Empire? Now I see why France was laughing."

"America is a smart young man." France chided the other nation in America's defense. "He has considerable potential. I think we are fortunate that England's influence did not ruin him entirely. It is my opinion that we can expect great things from young America." France smiled encouragingly at the young man.

"Eh." Prussia remained unconvinced. His head jerked aside as one of the attendant's began to fill a glass of wine for him. "What is this? I don't drink your silly piss water! Get me beer. Beer!"

"Beer!" Another nation bellowed in echo, as a man with wild yellow hair pulled himself up onto their level. He clasped the gloved hand that Prussia held out to him, the two of them slapping their shoulders companionably together. The man nodded at America as he dropped in beside Prussia. "Hello, I'm Holland! You are America, right? Everyone is talking about you like some shiny new treasure. No surprise that France has swooped in to collect you." He made a teasing face at France.

France gave him a bland stare in return. "I forget why it was that I invited you."

"You invited me because I wouldn't take no for an answer." Holland said happily. He twisted back and forth in his chair, searching the tables behind them. "You do have beer here, right, France?"

"Oui. They will bring your nasty alcohol out soon, mes amis." France shook his head. "Though I still do not understand why you insist on imbibing that filthy stuff. It is so inelegant compared to the beauty of a glass of red wine." He demonstrated by lifting his wine glass, swirling the contents with an expert spin.

"So sorry that our superior tastes offend your delicate French sensibilities." Prussia grated with a smirk. A gloved hand spread its fingers out. "Perhaps when you sissy girls finally grow a pair then you'll be able to appreciate a real man's drink one day."

Holland prodded Prussia with his elbow. "Careful, Prussia, or else he might decide to stick something delicate and French in your rear later."

"Only if he desires castration." Prussia muttered darkly. He tapped a finger on his butter knife as a not so subtle warning.

America found himself with nothing to say as he listened to them banter back and forth. He'd been operating under the assumption that these nations were all friends. Now, after listening to them exchanging these barbs at each other, he was no longer confident. France hadn't brought him into the middle of some hostile skirmish, had he?

Another man came to fill the last spot at the table. His steps were sluggish, as if he'd just come from some laborious chore. He was slightly darker skinned than the others - clearly he had spent much more time in the sun. Pulling out the last seat, he dropped gracelessly on it. He didn't even bother to scoot it in before lowering his head to thump down on top of the table. "Mi amigos, shoot me now, por favore."

Prussia snorted. "Problems with the brat again? I don't see why you haven't just murdered him. If I had to put up with him as much as you, I would have already killed him, stuffed him, and mounted him above my fireplace."

"Romano is… is just unhappy with rooming arrangements, is all." The slumped man lamented. "He does not like that I will be sharing a room with him; he'd rather it were Feliciano. But Feliciano has already settled with Hungary and refuses to trade."

Holland patted him consolingly on the back. "Spain, you poor, poor fool. You really need to cut the apron strings with him, my friend."

"I have no illusions about Romano!" Spain whined as he lifted his head. His complaints ended as he discovered that America was sitting amongst their group. He looked embarrassed, rubbing at the back of his head. "Ah, s-sorry about that. I did not know that we had new company."

France gestured between the two of them. "Spain, this is America. America, this is Spain. He is afflicted with a disease that makes him unable to avoid worrying about South Italy for more than an hour at a time."

"That's a lie. I worry about plenty of other things, too." Spain protested. He stood up from his seat, offering America his hand across the table. "Hola, America – it is a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh at last. I have been to your home many times but never got the chance to see you for myself."

"Really? I had no idea that you'd visited." America said lightly. Spain had been to his homeland and he hadn't known about it? That was yet another tidbit of information that was kept away from him over the years. Interesting. "Next time you're in the area, you should come and visit me at my house. I live up north."

They sat back down. Spain didn't complain when his glass was full of wine. Apparently he didn't have the selective tastes of Prussia and Holland. America saw that those two were downing their mugs of beer with impressive speed, racing to the bottom. Prussia thumped his mug to the table first, belching low in his throat. He held the empty mug up to the attendant. "Get us another one. Better yet, just bring the keg and we'll help ourselves."

"Here, here. Holland seconds the motion for importing the keg to our table." Holland said with a grin. "All those opposed can kiss my salty ass." He laughed as Prussia clinked their empty mugs together in agreement.

America smiled. Perhaps his assessment about them being enemies had been incorrect. The four nations had fallen into an easy pattern of interaction; clearly they were used to each other. As he listened more closely to their insults, he could tell that these were nothing more than good-natured ribbings. It was not so different from the men on the battlefield testing each other with insults and sharp retorts – this type of exchange was all part of social interaction.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen!" France said loudly, tapping the side of his fork against his glass to draw their attention. "You may indulge in my hospitality as much as you desire. In the meanwhile, however, we have gathered at this table for a reason, non? I believe that I was clear in my letters precisely what the purpose of our luncheon entailed?"

"Si." Spain nodded. His green eyes danced with a wicked glint as he hit a fist into his opposite palm. "Our chance for payback, no?"

France nodded. America didn't seem to know what Spain meant with his words, so France leaned in towards the younger man, placing a hand on the back of his chair. "America, I must make a small confession: My reasons for inviting you here are selfish. Though your company is an inarguable pleasure, my interests are entirely self-involved." His other hand gestured around the table. "I asked these nations to join us because they, like myself, also have mutual interests. Our nations rely heavily upon trade. For many years now, we have suffered because our ability to trade has been impeded by a constant nuisance – the British Empire. The Atlantic has become impossible to navigate."

He sighed. "Our attempts at diplomacy have been ignored. That little snot takes delight in making our lives miserable. Spain has been inconvenienced, Holland has been inconvenienced, I have been inconvenienced, and Prussia—" France frowned. "Wait. Prussia, mon ami, why are you here?"

"I just don't like the guy." Prussia shrugged as if that explained everything. "He bugs me."

"Hm. Right." France let that one go as he smiled back towards America. "My point, America, is that your fight for independence is actually an ideal opportunity for us. If British rule is overthrown from your land, then the empire's foothold is removed from the breadth of the Atlantic. We will gain a considerable advantage if you emerge from this battle as a free nation."

America's eyes slowly widened. Were they offering what he thought they were offering? He wet his lips as his gaze touched upon each nation. "Are you saying that you'll…?"

France lifted his glass of wine. "A toast to belligerency, anyone?"

Spain raised his own glass with a small smile. "Belligerency."

Picking up his mug, Holland toasted with a wink. "Belligerency."

Prussia was too busy chugging his beer to bother removing it from his mouth. He just bobbed his head up and down in agreement.

France indicated the glass of wine in front of him and America quickly moving to pick it up. He was full of a giddy happiness as relief filled his heart. He had come here wanting to appeal for aid, and now it had fallen into his lap with more abundance than he could ever hope for. His eyes were brightly shining as France clinked their glasses together, the older nation purring happily. "Belligerency."

They all took a drink to seal their agreement. The wine was bitter, so much so that America nearly recoiled at the taste. He drank it down like a liquid promise and on the back of his tongue the lingering flavor was sweet.

France set his glass back down. "Good. Then it's decided." He snapped his fingers to call over an attendant, whispering into the man's ear. The fellow nodded and went to fulfill some request. He returned shortly with parchment, ink and quill, placing them down in front of France. With a smile, France jotted a few words down on it. Satisfied, he folded the parchment twice and held it up to another attendant. "Deliver this for me, would you? He sticks out like a sore thumb in that damned coat of his, so I doubt you could miss him."

America watched as the attendant left. "Wait. Was that meant for England? What did you write?"

"I simply asked him to join us for a few minutes. We will have to wait and see if he accepts my invitation as eagerly as you did." France's smile was subtle but devious. He gave the ink and quill back to another steward, hands clapping together. "Now. Enough of this talk – I am starving! Let us start on some lunch."

Food was being brought out to them on silver platters. The smell alone indicated how good everything would taste. As several dishes were place down on the table in front of them, America found that he didn't recognize any of it. Everything was vibrant, like a painting full of color. Nothing appeared burnt or bland. Even the bread served with their meal looked fresh. His stomach suddenly awoke with a voracious appetite.

The Europeans dug into the food immediately. It seemed that sharing from the same dishes did not bother them. France suggested to America certain items to try when the young man hesitated to choose what he wanted. He settled for taking a little bit of everything, determined to try it all. America couldn't get enough! He'd never felt so hungry before, not in recent memory, and it didn't help that everything tasted so extraordinary. An attendant kept filling his glass of wine each time he emptied it. The taste didn't even bother him any longer.

Time sped by, and America suspected that he was a little drunk. He felt pleasantly warm all over, all the tension that had been holding him rigid bleeding away. It also loosened his tongue. At one point during the meal, Holland fell off of his chair with a push from Prussia. America laughed as he saw the nation clawing his way back up. "You're going to need a saddle if you can't ride that chair bareback, Holland."

Spain spit out a mouthful of wine onto the floor with a snort of laughter, while Prussia swatted the table. The albino doubled over with his laugh until his face went red. "That—that was a good one!" Holland's hand was making a clumsy gesture that America suspected was a form of insult. He memorized it for later use.

France rested his chin on his knuckles, watching them all with half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile. He hiccupped. "We are… setting a bad example for America already. Shame on you, mes amis."

Their table was undoubtedly the loudest. And the most inebriated. America had his fill of food. He propped his elbows on the table in front of him and rested his face in his hands. France had scooted his chair over and was leaning heavily against the young man, but America couldn't focus his thoughts enough to build up a protest. He tolerated the European's casual onslaught of stray touches and subtle affections for the time being, because he really didn't feel like moving right now. The wine left him feeling good, floating on a wave of contentment.

Though that cradle of good feeling dropped out from under him, plunging him into a pool of ice when his drowsing eyes opened up and found England standing in front of their table.

The man had France's letter crumpled up in a fist, arms crossed in front of him as he gave their table a cold, disgusted study. "We're in the midst of a conference and you lot have the audacity to get drunk in the middle of the day." England's distaste with them subsided as he saw America sitting there in the corner. He was obviously surprised to see the young man among them.

"You finally decided to join us, England." France purred at the other nation. His forearm draped itself on America's shoulder, fingers tracing the threads that wove the young man's blue jacket together as he smirked up at England, enjoying the tension that hardened England's jaw as a result. "We were just discussing some important topics with America here."

"Really? It sounded more to me like you were all sitting here making jackasses of yourselves." England said flatly. "What drunken nonsense were you waffling this time?"

"Oh, you know." France shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly. "Things like… freedom. America likes to talk about freedom. And we also talked about… trade routes." France's finger kept sliding that slow pattern across America's shoulder. "Then we spoke about how troublesome sailing on the Atlantic has become."

"Then we started talking about war." Spain said from his place at the table. He danced his fork around his plate, looking up at England with a vague smile.

"I brought up how nice it would be if we didn't have to worry about our ships getting attacked all the time." Holland mumbled, slumped over the table with half his mug of beer gone. Color stretched across the bridge of his nose. He hiccupped.

"And we concluded that you're a pain in the ass." Prussia stated after a rough belch. He eyed his empty mug unhappily.

France nodded in support of Prussia's claim. He slid his arm across the back of America's shoulders to give the silent young man a squeeze. "So, after much discussion and a few glasses of wine, we came to the decision that we want to invest our faith in your former colony. All four of us."

England's face contorted with rage, his voice deadly quiet. "If you think that you can threaten me like this, France, I will call your bluff."

"I am not bluffing, England." France tilted his head to the side and smiled. "France, Spain, Holland and Prussia will be lending their strength to help America win his freedom from British rule. Consider this an informal preview to our formal declaration of war."


America left the dining chamber to return to the meeting room on his own. His new allies were still indulging in the last of their meal. He, however, did not want to risk being late in returning, since he had already been late to arrive. The wine was still in his system, though he'd ceased drinking it after England had stomped away from their table. The older nation's appearance had caused him to lose his appetite or any desire for anything else to drink. He still felt light all over - not perfectly sober, perhaps, but certainly not drunk.

It did impair his judgment. Otherwise, he would have been wise to remain amongst the circle of his newfound friends. America detected the sound of boots coming up behind him as he walked, that sound echoing his as he was approached. He didn't even have to look to know who it was and guess what was about to happen.

America felt hands closing on the fabric of his jacket, sudden force swinging him until his back hit hard against the wall. The young man winced at the impact, as an arm came up to rest against the top of his chest, effectively pinning him in place. He tried to shove it away, scowling. "Get your hands off me."

"I will do as I like." England growled back. His face was still dark with anger. He had not taken France's proclamation well. America might have been taller now, but England's compact figure was incredibly strong. "You are still under British rule – my rule – and as such you are not allowed to defy me."

America pushed at England's arm again. It wouldn't budge at all. Damn him for flaunting his advantage. "I am not. I am an independent nation. Acknowledge it!"

England scoffed. "Never." He shifted his arm, closing a fist around a handful of America's jacket. The older nation dragged him as if he weighed nothing, England yanking open a door further down the hallway and pushing America through it. America stumbled inside. He had to catch himself against a table when his feet didn't land correctly. Another side effect of the wine he'd so foolishly drank. If he had known that he was going to run into England like this, America wouldn't have touched a drop.

The room was some smaller chamber. Extra chairs were stored here, as well as a few tables. A window across the room faced the sunset, bathing the room in a pale orange hue. England locked the door behind him after he had stepped inside. They stood apart from each other, America sitting heavily on the edge of the table, England with his back against the door. Both men were panting from the struggle it had taken to get them here.

America glared at the nation blocking his path to escape. "Why are you doing this? We have nothing to say to each other."

"That's hardly true, now is it?" England's returned a hard stare.

"Oh? What would you have me say, England? I made myself clear that humid day in July, when my people declared their independence to your precious King. My resolve has not changed – you locking me in here for whatever purpose will not make me waver." America shook his head. England had the chance to hurt him and he certainly had the strength to do so. In fact, when the other walked towards him, America braced himself for the worst. Though he tried to be brave, he found his face turning aside at the last second, eyes squinting shut as he prepared for the strike.

England's arms slid around his neck instead, the warmth of the older man pressing along the front of him as America was pulled into an embrace so tight that it stole his breath away. His fingers curled over the lip of the table he leant against, flexing to dig his nails into the wood as he popped his eyes open. He had expected England's violence. He had not expected this.

Soon, England's head buried into his shoulder, as fine hairs tickled against America's throat. He squeezed the other man again, a desperation there that America could not believe as he heard his former caretaker whisper near his ear. "It's been two years. Two long bloody years without seeing you even once. You disappeared without giving me any clue as to where you'd gone."

"We're in the middle of a war. It didn't seem right to send you letters." America answered dazedly. He couldn't figure out what to do with this unforeseen action. His arms refused to move from his sides, so America just sat there stiffly and allowed the embrace.

"You could have at least had the courtesy to send a note. Anything to let me know that you were all right."

"Your troops are burning me in places, England. How could you expect that I'd be well?" America shook his head, marveling at the concern in the other man's voice.

England pulled back from him a little, hands fitting to either side of America's arms. "It's war, America. Your injuries are to be expected. They'll heal, though. They always do." He was looking the younger man over, absorbing every detail that had changed over the past two years. England smiled faintly. "Just look at you. You've sprouted up yet again. Are you ever going to stop growing?"

"I don't know." America was skeptical of his behavior. "What is it that you want from me?"

"That should be obvious." England said quietly, that absent smile still in place as he brushed his fingers across America's shoulders to smooth out the wrinkles in the fabric. He followed his work with his eyes until he was satisfied. They rose up to meet America's. "I want you to come home."

"Impossible."

"It isn't. Not really." England shook his head, charming and persuasive as he adjusted the left sash of America's uniform so that it was straight. "True, you have stirred up quite a lot of trouble. It will take much work on my part to smooth over, but in a few years, with some clever political maneuvering, it will be like it never even happened. I can convince the King to grant your people clemency. Naturally, you were unaware of what you were doing. Every child goes through a rebellious phase – I know that I did."

America grimaced. "It's not a phase, England. I'm not even a child any longer. My childhood was torn from me the day I took up my rifle and shot another person dead. I am saddled with the responsibilities and regrets of a man now."

"Fine. Fine. You are a man, then." England murmured. "I will accept that you are an adult. Is that what you wish to hear? You are a man now, America. If fighting as men do pleases you so, I promise that I will take you with me into my battles so that you may have your fill. I will treat you as a man is treated. Just… come home, and I will give you whatever you want!"

"What if all that I want is my freedom?" America asked, searching his face.

"Anything but that." England took hold of his wrists, prying his hands away from the desk. He carried America's hands up and pressed the young man's palms against his face, holding them to the warmth of his cheeks. His eyes were marked with intensity. "You don't need the world, America. Take it from me – nothing good comes from the world outside of your borders. You have no need to bring that trouble upon yourself. You have me – we have each other – and that is all that you could ever need."

"Is this because of France and the others? Is that why you are appealing to me like this?" America narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

England shook his head. "No. Though it galls me that you would surround yourself with such company, their involvement plays no part in this. At this point, they will mobilize too late to be of any use to the cause." He squeezed America's hands in his. "You are on the verge of losing, America. Your forces will fall – it is only a matter of time. My troops have already smashed through their defenses; there is no chance for hope. If you convince them to surrender now then it will be easier for me to fix this entire mess. Then you and I can move on and put this fiasco behind us."

It was obvious that England completely believed what he was saying. He was confident in the result, expecting America's defeat. America thought back to Washington's warnings to him, the desperate tension that hung in the air, knowing that they were on the precipice of failure. England might very well have been right. Still…

"Maybe there is no chance for us to win." America said softly. "You could be correct in saying so. We might very well lose this war. I won't deny that possibility." He drew himself up off the table so that he was standing at his full height, determined eyes angled down at England. "Regardless, I will keep my faith in my people, that we will see this through until the end and that we will be free."

England dropped his hands with a snort, partially turning away. "You're a bloody fool."

"I won't argue with that either." America's hands hovered in the air, one of them finally landing on England's chest so that he could push the older nation away. He stepped past England on his way to the door only to find his wrist being captured.

England held him in place with a frown. His gaze was troubled, pleading. "America, please. Don't do this. We're brothers, aren't we? Brothers shouldn't fight like this."

America stared at the hand on his arm. "That's not true. You might have called me that in order to sway my affection, but we both know that we were never truly brothers. I was the possession and you were the master no matter how much we wanted to pretend otherwise. What we had, all of it, it was just a pretty dream."

"Is that your opinion?" England cocked his head to the side. "That we are not brothers? There is nothing between us but the reality that you are my colony and I am your sovereign nation?"

"You were. You aren't now. I'll soon dissolve even that connection."

"A rather cruel way to sever our ties, America." England frowned. America winced as his grip tightened, that hidden strength utilized to control him as England's hand began to twist his arm in that vice. Pain lanced through the length of it, clear up into his shoulder, so that he had no choice but to turn his body with it or suffer. He growled in his throat as he was forced to settle on one knee in front of England.

His anger was ignored. England's eyes viewed him with detachment as he held America captive in that hold. The older nation's other hand lifted to take hold of his chin, cradling it in his palm as he studied America's enraged face. "If you consider yourself as nothing more than my property, then I am more at liberty than I thought…"

As America was puzzling that over, England inched his face up higher and coated the young man's mouth with his. America jumped as though burnt and tried to withdraw; England held him steadfastly into the kiss. His lips were dry but soft as they danced over America's mouth with a gentle, invasive pressure. It wasn't the calculating, playful kiss that France had given him years ago – this kiss meant something deep, something powerful. England poured something out through every stroke of his warm mouth, coaxing patiently until he felt the faint response of America's lips.

It prompted him to explore deeper, his thumb sweeping up from America's chin to dent the corner of the young man's lips. He probed that same corner with the tip of his tongue and earned a muffled gasp. England leapt upon the chance to invade that open mouth, dipping his tongue within to taste what flavors lingered. There was spice and wine and honey – he was practically feeding on America's mouth. As the kiss continued, England relaxed into it, letting it absorb him. He made a low sound of pleasure in his throat. That noise cued America – England's guard was down.

With both hands in front of him, America struck England hard in the chest, using the strength he contained but never employed lightly. It sent the man stumbling backwards, England grasping at the air to try and keep his balance, though he had nothing to catch himself as he crashed into a few nearby chairs, falling to the floor. America stood up quickly, chest heaving as he stared across the room at the other nation. He swiped at his mouth, lips still tingling and tongue stained by the flavor of tea. His face was scarlet clear to his hairline, though America told himself that it was as much from anger as it had been a result of that kiss.

"Never touch me again. Keep your distance – your affection, sir, is quite unwelcome." America spat out.

England untangled himself from the furniture, gingerly picking himself up from the floor. He seemed unsure, as if surprised by his own actions. His hand stretched out as America hurried towards the door. "Wait!"

"No. I won't." America turned the lock and opened the door. He didn't know much about hatred but he did his best to try projecting it on his face as he glared at England. "You need to accept the truth. We are not brothers – we are not even allies. We are two nations on opposite sides of a war. I don't want your affection. I don't want your counsel. England – I simply don't want you. The sooner that you come to terms with that, the better."

America did not wait for a response. He did not even check to see what affect his words had on England. All he did was walk out the door, leaving the other nation behind as he fled to the safety of the others.


The meeting reconvened once enough nations had returned from lunch. Not all of them had come back – America noted that Holland was nowhere to be seen, while France and Spain trickled in after new discussions had already started. They appeared to have sobered up a little in the interim. France winked at him as he sauntered to his seat. America fanned his fingers in a wave, fighting to keep his attention on the nation that was currently speaking – a female, which was apparently rare in an otherwise male-dominated world of nations.

She was talking about agriculture. That was a topic of interest that America could appreciate. Agriculture was an important part of his own country's infrastructure, an industry that was growing daily. When she was finally finished, America heard a few bored coughs from around the table. Apparently it wasn't exciting enough for everyone here. The young man's eyes followed her as she walked back to her seat so that he could remember her face for later. Undoubtedly, she would have been an excellent source for information, perhaps with some suggestions to improve his operations at home.

When she walked by England, America took a moment to regard the other nation. He no longer stared at him from his spot. His attention was fixed upon a few sheets of parchment in front of him, England occupied with writing row after row, a lean arm curved around his work to keep his masked neighbor from viewing the contents. America wondered what he was writing. He'd seen England like this a countless number of times in the past; always working, always busy. At least America could be grateful that England's eyes weren't drilling into his head any longer.

What was that business in the other room? Why had England kissed him? America touched his mouth with the tips of his fingers, recalling the tingling sensation that had clung to his lips after he'd forced England away. His mind treacherously reconstructed every detail of the moment; the shared warmth, the pressure that was both unyielding yet soft, how England's fingers flexed against his jaw – even that exhale of noise that had made America's stomach twist. He felt his face light up with a blush. America shook his head roughly to dislodge the memory, scrubbing at his cheeks with his hands to discourage the color from spreading any further.

He would put it out of his mind. He'd forget that such a thing even happened. It was the only option. If necessary, America would convince himself that it was nothing more than an act intended to manipulate him – easier to accept that than to admit to any other possibilities. He bit down hard on his bottom lip. There. That channeled pain helped to erase some traces of that phantom kiss.

North Italy – Feliciano – was smiling at him admiringly. America smiled back, as the other nation leaned in to whisper. "America sure makes some strange gestures – are they part of your culture?"

"What…?" America arched an eyebrow.

To demonstrate what he meant, Feliciano began to wave his hands vigorously upon his cheeks as he mimicked America's earlier motions. His face tensed up behind them, eyes squeezing shut. America wondered, with a shred of horror, if that was how he had looked during that moment. He averted his eyes. "Oh. Um, no, no it isn't. I just felt a little uneasy and thought that it would calm me down."

"I see." Feliciano nodded, cheeks dimpling with a smile. "I have something like that I do sometimes, too! See, I'll show you." With that, the other man pinched up the plump parts of his cheeks with his fingers. He began to contort the flesh, pulling it in slow circles so that his mouth opened slightly as the movements dragged it along.

America smiled slightly. Outwardly, he was the epitome of polite interest. Internally, he wondered exactly how old the other nation was, because America had never seen anyone older than him behave in such a childlike manner. Feliciano had turned in his seat, showing that comical face to his brother beside him. He made a wail of protest when Romano slapped his hands down from his cheeks with a sigh.

Attendants entered the chamber, rolling in serving carts. America could see that several trays were prepared for tea service, while on the others there were other vessels that weren't quite the same as teacups. He watched as the attendants went down the line while a new nation – Finland, this time – addressed their assembly. England finally tore his attention away from his work to accept the delicate teacup that was presented to him. America had not had tea in quite some time – he'd lost his taste for it after his falling out with England, only drinking it when there was no other option. He blanched as an attendant set one of the delicate porcelain cups in front of him, looking up at the man with a quiet inquiry. "Is there something else to drink?"

Feliciano waved a hand at him breezily. "You should try the coffee, America. It is so good!" The man held up his own rounded cup, inhaling the aroma of the dark liquid within.

America nodded. "I'd like a coffee as well, then. Please?"

The teacup was switched out for the cup of coffee. America stared down at it curiously. It had a strong scent, the liquid darker than the tea that he'd always consumed. There was a handle on the cup similar to that of a teacup, yet the porcelain was thicker. He wrapped his fingers cautiously around the cup and felt intense heat even through its bulk. America took an experimental sip, recoiling as he burnt his tongue. He should have known better. Curling his sore tongue over in his mouth, America set it back down to let it cool longer.

His next attempt went better. He blew on the beverage beforehand before taking in a mouthful of the stuff. It was thicker than tea – the taste was certainly stronger than a weak herbal blend. If tea was a caress to the tongue, this was more like a punch. It was slightly bitter, earthy – and probably the best thing he'd tasted since eating France's food at lunch. America smiled down at the cup balanced in his palms. He'd just found a new substitute for tea.

America's delight with the new discovery was short lived. While he sat there looking into the cup, his hands began to tremble. He blinked as his muscles began to work of their own accord, those tremors increasing in severity until some of the coffee spilt over the edge of the rim and splashed down onto his fingers. It was still hot enough to burn. America winced, hurriedly setting his cup on the table as he shook the heated liquid off his skin.

That burning pain spread anyway. Its source was not from his hand – that scalding ache bubbled at the crook of his left elbow, creeping up the length of his forearm. Both sources of his pain seemed to reach across the gap, merging together so that his entire arm felt like it were on fire. It was sudden agony. America gasped, his arm coming up to fold protectively to his chest, clutching it with his opposite hand to try and ease the pain. The abrupt alarm and discomfort made his entire body jerk, so that he rose from his chair hard enough to send it clattering behind him.

Finland had stopped speaking and was looking at him concernedly. That led several other nations to shift their attention to him as well. He knew that England was watching him over the rim of his teacup. America winced at their attention, apologizing through gritted teeth. "S-sorry. I'm very sorry. Please excuse me."

Clutching at his arm, the young nation edged his way quickly by the seats between him and the door. He shoved the door open with a shoulder so that he could duck out into the hallway. When he was away from the ears of the other nations, America emitted a ragged moan of pain. He began to unbutton his jacket with trembling fingers as he rushed to get it off of him so that he could see what had caused this sudden agony. America clumsily shrugged the jacket off, letting it fall forgotten to the floor of the corridor.

When he finally managed to unbutton the cuff of his white shirt, America started to roll it up. Every brush of the fabric was a fresh stab of pain, the young man sucking in a slow breath through his teeth as he forced himself to continue until the sleeve was rolled up just past his elbow. Night had fallen, so there was no light offered by the windows for him to see by. America walked under a gas lamp mounted on the wall, examining his arm under the spill of its pale illumination.

The flesh of his arm was an ugly red. His skin had bubbled up in places, stark white marks of fluid that had once been pale and unblemished. It looked like he'd poured an entire kettle of scalding tea down his arm. America flexed his fingers, testing the muscles underneath, though that made the pain lance up into his shoulder in protest. The burn wasn't just on the surface – it had penetrated layers of muscle as well.

He looked up quickly when the door to the chamber opened. Prussia came sweeping out in a ripple of dark fabric. America was amazed that he would have been the one to come check up on him. He'd expected France. Prussia came directly in front of the young man. His red eyes dropped to inspect America's arm. A nervous, wavering laugh tore out of America. It was either laugh or cry, and he would have felt uncomfortable doing the latter in front of Prussia. "They've begun burning the land in earnest. I had hoped they were done doing that."

Prussia gave him a searching stare. He was silent, crimson eyes lacking any trace of that drunken humor in them an hour ago. Then his hand swung up without warning and leather-clad fingers pressed their lengths around that burnt flesh with a narrowing of his gaze. America cried out. The pain was nearly enough to make him lose his grasp on consciousness. He swayed as the agony tried to short circuit his senses, widened eyes bulging towards Prussia from this act of senseless harm.

Then Prussia forced him in so that their faces were leaning closer, the man's gravelly voice firm. "Can you take this pain?"

"W-what?" America whispered wildly, his stomach ready to push out everything that he'd eaten for lunch.

"Can you take this pain?" Prussia repeated. His red eyes stabbed into America's. "This is just the beginning. There will be worse than this that awaits you if you truly want to be a nation. They will hurt you all the way to the bone, into the very core of your flesh. Before I consider wasting any more of my precious time, I want to know: Can you take this pain, America?"

Prussia was testing him. The question was jarring. Could he take this pain? America's breaths whistled through his teeth as the pain sought to overwhelm him. Was he willing to make the sacrifice? America knew that he could not lie. If Prussia's warnings were true, then he needed to have the will required to suffer this pain, as well as the strength to survive it. America's heaving breaths began to slow, evening out into a steady rhythm, as he found the resolve to force that pain apart from him until it became a dull ache on the periphery of his senses.

His eyes met Prussia's – really met them this time – and America nodded firmly as an odd calm fell over him. "Yes. Yes, I can take it."

Dropping America's arm, Prussia turned and began walking away. "Then let's go to the infirmary and get that arm bandaged up. It stinks like hell. After that, we leave. I'm bored with this place anyway."

"…What about the rest of the conference?" America asked as he picked his jacket up off the floor and followed behind Prussia.

"Do you want to sit around here and listen to those babies whine about their misfortunes, or do you want to win this war of yours?" Prussia smirked wickedly. "The more time you spend here, the less time I'll have to train your pitiful country bumpkins how to fight worth a damn. That, and we'll need to move quickly to outmaneuver England. Did you see him plotting at the table? Rest assured that he is doing everything in his power to win the war before you even set foot back home."

America's mouth went slack. "Are you telling me that you intend to sail back with me?"

"For now. I might change my mind. It's not like I don't have better things to do. There's a good chance that I will decide not to train your troops when I get there. I might get irritated and burn your house down. I might just kill you and be done with it." Prussia shrugged. "Being unpredictable is part of what makes me so great. Keep that in mind, kid. Now hurry up."


A/N: During the Revolutionary War, Britain had more or less managed to anger most of the countries who sought to trade on the Atlantic. France had secretly supplied the American colonies with ships, people and funding in an effort to help remove the foothold that Britain had on both sides of the Atlantic.

In 1778, France allied with the American colonies and entered into war against Britain. At this time, Spain and Holland also fought against the British Navy in an effort to open trade routes. Their interference on the Atlantic stage was enough to help keep major parts of the British Navy distracted, which in turn helped with America's victory.

America's soldiers were trained by a Prussian. Before that, many of them knew nothing of fighting up to the standards of the British army.

Of course, this was a portrayal with alterations. I doubt the belligerents decided it over lunch - but they should have!

America's "burning"- Many British generals would burn the fields and villages of places that they conquered after battle. Others thought that it was a barbaric practice.