Oh, mon dieu, you guys make me feel like I blow everything out of proportion. Anyway, I'm posting replies to reviews at the end of the chapter, so if you reviewed look for it there! HEY, hey, hey, I got your attention? 'Cause if you like this story, I'm about to make you happy. I'm going to *try* and update everyday. I own nuffin'.

As Francis was staring out a window of a train taking him to Paris he realized he was one step closer to Matthieu and an eternity away. He sighed. Did Matthieu think that he regretted the kiss? Non, he decided, Matthieu was only scared I might. He smiled a bittersweet smile. One step closer…. And an eternity away.

Life without Matthieu went on. Time passed and Francis pined for his lost love less. He found some to warm his bed, but, they all reminded him of Matthieu in some way. It left a faint bitter taste in his mouth. The first had soft blonde hair, only missing a certain curl and needed to be a shade lighter. The next had indigo-violet eyes, but too blue to be his favorite color. The third had Matthieu's nimble hands, but instead of waking up to soft strains of simple piano music, Francis woke up to the violin. The fourth was a girl named Madeline. She had Matthieu's soft voice. She was the current one.

The Letter had arrived after a romp in bed with her. The Letter (It carried enough weight in Francis's mind to warrant capitals) was in flowing, slanted cursive. Francis knew. Though there was no name, there was no doubt.

I am thinking of asking for independence.

Madeline was gone two days later. Francis did not wish her gone, but she had seen him on the living room sofa, a cigarette between his shaking fingers and The Letter staring at the ceiling. She knew as well. She had hugged him to her and with as much softness and kindness as Matthieu, said, "Go to him, Francis."

Francis had not. He had meant to, and then the War of 1812 happened. Matthieu suddenly experienced an influx of American immigrants, had his land taken away from him, and now, forbidden by Arthur, thought of building a republic. Francis heard all this second-hand from l'Amerique or Angleterre.

The next he heard was Britain talking about some rebels in Canadia. Francis wanted to see Matthieu. He knew how horrid war was, much less civil war. He sat in his bed at night, wondering if the musket with Matthieu's trapping supplies was still there. Wondered if it was within reach. Wondered if he would wake up tomorrow to find Matthieu dead. Francis would hit his hand against his head and call himself stupid.

One of the following days, Arthur handed him a paper that had what looked like a speech on it. Francis glanced at it.

"Your blood and race will now be supreme, if true to yourselves," Francis read aloud, "You will be English ''at the expense of not being British,'' To whom and what, is your allegiance now?" Francis stared in horror.

"Best bloody words, you 'er did 'ear, right?" Arthur stated proudly, having the gall to polish his fingernails on his shirt collar.

"Mon ami," Francis tried gently, after all it was best to reason with Angleterre, "Couldn't you try being…. Less… less…."

"Less?" The monster brows demanded.

"Less…. Condescending," Francis finished painfully. The monster brows seemed to fill the space with an ominous aura as they drew down into angry caterpillars. Francis tried not to laugh at the… things. I can't very well call them eyebrows, he mused, and almost lost silence to a childish giggle.

They twitched. Francis was punched as he began to laugh.

Some parts of him felt inappropriate for laughing because he knew those words were going to be read to Matthieu and his country. It is why he sat and did not raise a hand against Arthur.

It was not long after Matthieu stood at an Allies meeting. That first day, he commanded the room because it was a rare occasion when Matthieu needed to speak. Francis remembered the determined look in his eyes.

"I need your attention." Everyone quieted, even Italy, who had somehow snuck into the meeting again. "My name is Matthew Williams." Francis had silently cheered that the horrible 'Kirkland' name was no longer attached. " I am Canadia, or as some of you refer to me, Canada. I am an independent, free-willed country. I am not America, no matter how much we look alike. I am not the fiercest country. I am not the best fighter. I am not a strong country. But I am not weak. I am not careless. Britain has already recognized Canadia's independence. We are our own country, and I demand to be treated as such."

It was quiet for a moment, and then the raucous Alfred jumped up, hitting Matthieu on the back in congratulations. Britain glared at both his former colonies. Yao handed Matthieu some rice balls (Francis chuckled), and said enthusiastically, "Welcome, err… Anyway, I am China. When China powerful, I will take all."

Russia inclined his head and with a smile said, "Da~, welcome, Comrade Matvey."

Italy bounded up and everyone paused. Oblivious as ever to where he was, Italy grinned at Matthew. "Hello! I am-a Italy, but you can call me Feliciano~, I have a brother named Lovino, but he is mean and – Ah! You have one too, ve!" Italy stroked the curl. Matthieu turned the red of his military uniform and stifled a groan. "Francis, you did not-a tell me he had-a one too, ve!" Italy exclaimed the words, turning around toward Francis, and still stroking the curl.

Matthieu unconsciously leaned into Feliciano. The room erupted into chaos. Russia turned to America and began pulling on Nantucket. Francis leaped out of his seat and ripped Matthieu away from Feliciano. Arthur seemed to try to yell at both Francis and Matthieu and Russia and America at the same time. He tried to yell at Russia to stop stroking America's curl and for America to stop enjoying it.

Francis paid no mind, instead focusing on Matthieu shivering and panting into him, leaning heavily against him. Then Angleterre yelled for Matthieu to stop rubbing himself on Francis like a cat in heat. Matthieu, overstimulated, overworked, and worn out, erupted into tears.

Francis did not like the sudden turn of events. He rubbed Matthieu's back soothingly, whispering in French to the man. A polar bear squished between them growled threateningly. Francis hoped it was not at him.

Matthieu hiccupped and began patting Kumajiro, finding comfort in the warm fur of the soft animal. Kumajiro growled again, this time, Francis knew it was at him. He wisely backed away. Alfred, seemingly, out of Russia's grips, bounded up.

"Hey, kiddo, stop crying! It's gonna' be allll better now that the hero's here!" Alfred boomed. "Just, err, what's your name again?"

"Who're you?" Kumajiro echoed.

"I'm Canada," Matthieu said helplessly to the both of them, "Alfred, I'm your brother. Kumaniro, I'm your owner!"

And just like that, Matthieu was accepted into the Allies. The meeting went along normally. Matthieu, though himself forgotten, was remembered in the presence that the others seemed to sense. Only Francis and Ivan seemed to pay attention to the fact that Matthieu was in the room.

And life was good. Matthieu had not participated in the First World War, so no scars existed on him. No damage to his psyche. Francis tried not to remember those days or his cowardice in defecting from the French army.

But Francis was wise. He was an Old Nation, after all. Such peace was not meant to be. He and Arthur would share glances sometimes, and they both knew. So when Germany attacked Poland, Francis and Arthur exchanged a glance and nodded solemnly. Francis, along with Arthur, declared war on Germany on September 3rd, 1939. Seven days later, September 10th, Canadia declared war.

Francis fought with the fire of a man defending his home, May 1940. All his men were angered that such a pig dare enter their homeland. They felt the battle as surely as Napoleon felt battle. With fire, with fervor, with white-hot, searing, branding iron hot passion.

Canadia was there, too. He did not lie in the trenches as Francis did. He fought with metal wings. Francis sometimes stopped to watch the German planes and Japanese kamikaze fighters and saw Matthieu's easy skill and tactical ability at fighting and bombing.

Only once did he see Matthieu's plane go down. He watched in horror as the plane hit the ground and caught fire. He saw a figure, curved and ever moving under the waves of heat clamber out of the plane. Matthieu turned toward his plane, saw the one that crashed him, took out his pistol and with cool precision, emptied his revolver.

He began running toward French trenches. Francis heard the battle-hungry cries of new soldiers behind him. So, Canadia had joined the land, the air, and the sea. As Matthieu sprinted forward, Francis heard a French cry of 'Stop, German!' Francis turned, world slowing, a soldier's gun pointed at Matthieu, his finger was on the trigger, it clamped down.

The loud crack of the gun came too fast for Francis's hand to deter the aim. He slapped the gun out of the stupid, insolent boy's hand.

Matthieu jerked back, hit, (ohmondieunon) blood ripping out of him, forcefully ejected by the bullet. "Matthieu!" Francis screamed.

So, I've completely buggered timeline. I skipped World War One, because Canada had no real... anything in that battle, really, just sent supplies to England. There'll be more combat next chapter, believe you me. I should spend some time with WW2.

'Nyways,

JulietGivesUp - Canadia just makes better sense to me. Canadians, Canadia. Also, it sounds more dramatic and majestic. Hope it doesn't bug you too much. ^-^

Anon - You are a wonderful anon, whoever you are. No, I think of Francis as very clingy, xD Thanks so much. It makes me feel better to know people like it.

.5 - 2 reviews? I feel honored~. Well, here's the beginning of the drama in World War 2, which will be continued. I hope it lives up to your expectations! :)

dark1988 - Oh, thank you! I almost felt Matthieu was a bit OOC, but it's good to hear otherwise! Ah, you are one of my Canadian readers? You make me happy. Definitely wouldn't have given up, just wouldn't have posted.