Like I know why he only cries when he feels he's about to lose control

He knows how much control is worth

Knows what a person can lose

When their power to move

Is taken away

By a grip so thick with hate

It could clip the wings of God


That overheard conversation stayed with Peter, festering in the back of his mind. It ate at him, and he felt guilty for all the times he'd called England a jerk or said he hated him.

He started to notice things. Things like before England would yell at him to go away, he'd get a bit paler and step back. Peter wasn't sure if he'd seen that before and just thought it was England getting angry, but now it was pretty obvious that it was England getting scared.

It was an awful secret to have to carry around.

And worse than what he knew was what he didn't know. Because now, every time he ran into one of the other nations, he found himself wondering. Was it France? No, probably not- England's tone was way different from what Peter'd heard while he was on the phone whenever he had to deal with France. America, then? Again, probably not- America would never do something like rape someone.

He couldn't stop thinking about it. Everyone was a suspect, even if he didn't think someone was at first. Maybe it really was Lithuania, and that was why England felt he could call him. Or maybe it was Russia after all, even if Peter didn't see why anyone would call Russia, period. Or America could just not be as stupid and nice as he acted.

He lost sleep over it half the time, lying awake and just listing everyone, trying to narrow it down to who he looked like or who he acted like or something like that, but it was useless.


Time passed, like it usually does. Peter kept up his mission to finally be acknowledged as a nation, but he had another secret mission, too. He was going to find the nation who'd hurt England – without letting England know he knew – and take revenge for him. Neither one of those missions was going to be easy.

Peter wasn't dumb, he knew he had to have a plan. His plan for being acknowledged was to push and push and demand until someone gave into it, but finding his other father was harder to plan for.

Finally, he came to the conclusion that he needed to find out more information, which meant turning into a spy. England had a crack spy network, according to the movies, and Sealand was England's son, so it only stood to reason Peter would make a good spy, too.


One thing spy movies never seemed to cover was how useful being small was, probably because spies were all middle-aged guys that did a lot of kissing girls – ew – or the girls those middle-aged guys spent all their time kissing. But someone Peter's size could fit where a grown person or a girl with big boobs couldn't.

Like in the narrow space under the table behind the couch in England's office. The table was almost as high as the back of the couch, but too narrow for an adult to fit under. It had a skirt that brushed the floor and a few pretty statuettes on it, so it looked nice and made a great hiding place, once Peter had sneaked in at night to dust. Table skirts made people forget to sweep under them.

But the important thing was that England could sit at his desk for hours and never know Peter was there. A bottle of water and a sandwich for a snack, and Peter could eavesdrop on anything.

That day had been pretty boring so far, just a bunch of dull phone calls and a meeting with England's boring old boss, and Sealand was thinking of sneaking back out and going home when he heard the door open and England cursed.

"What do you want, frog?" England snapped. "I'm busy. Working. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

It was that special, 'I don't really hate you but damned if I'll let you know that,' tone England only used on France.

The answering laugh was definitely France, and someone flopped down on the couch. "Angleterre, you wound me! Here I've taken time from my day to pay you a visit, and you're so cold."

"I'm not in the mood, France." England said flatly, but France only laughed again. "Get out. I mean it. I can't be bothered with you today."

"Well, perhaps we could... meet later?" France suggested. The couch shifted, and footsteps moved towards the desk. "We could play pirates. And all that entails."

A moment's silence, then someone got smacked. Hard.

"Get the hell out!" England yelled, making Sealand jump and cover his mouth with both hands to keep from yelping in surprise. "Get out, you bloody arse, before I kill you!"

More silence, then footsteps moving away, then the door closed. England sighed loudly, then threw something across the room. And started crying.

And nothing – not a single thing that Peter had ever done or ever would do – was half as hard as not crawling out from under that table and going to comfort England in any way he could. Nothing could ever come close to sitting there, not doing anything, and listening to England cry.


Leave the next day generations of your blood shaking

And tonight, something inside me's breaking

My heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of his pain

I could give each tear he's crying a year

A name

And a face I'd forever erase from his mind if I could

Just like he would for me

Or you

But how much closer to free would any of us be

If even a few forgot what too many in this world cannot?