Keeping the Englishman busy wasn't difficult the night before. Just as America said, France and Canada came back with nearly too many groceries to hold, and went straight to the kitchen. Lithuania broke one of America's rules though, and was called into the kitchen.

The blonds faced a predicament. The blue-eyed Frenchman insisted that neither of them could light America's tentative oven. Their hair! It was French and beautiful, and could not be risked under any circumstances. Of course Lithuania had to be the one to do it. Yes, he had nice hair, too, but he knew the ways of the American's oven, and, therefore, knew how to not be scorched. It was the only way. Or so the Frenchman insisted. Canada offered to light it, but when France finally heard, he declared the idea appalling.

The Baltic calmly listened to France explain all this, then proceeded to light the oven and put any further explanation to rest. He figured hair was France's ostensible concern, and as America would say, he'd had an "earful".

Other than that, he followed America's plan. When he and the Englishman returned, they burst through the door in a heated argument.

Canada and France, busy in the kitchen, with its door now closed, didn't bother to see what the commotion was. Lithuania, organizing the stack of newspapers in the chair that was nonchalantly set in the middle of the living room, turned his head. Not that he could see through walls.

Their voices almost instantly quieted, as if adjusting to the settings. Lithuania strained to hear, then realized he was eavesdropping, which, as his face warmed, was followed by the thought that red seemed to be a constant color on his face.

"You know what? It's silly! Forget it!" America hissed.

"H-wh-and just how do you expect me to do that?"

"I don't care; bang your head against the wall? Get bent? Hopped up? How do you usually forget about things?" Something dropped and there was a creak. Lithuania guessed America was sitting on the chest by the door.

Everything was quiet for a moment, then England said: "I don't."

America sighed, though it sounded more like a long huff. "Of course you don't."

"What's that supposed to mean? And you do—?"

"What do you think? At least I try to!"

"And that's supposed to make me feel better, you git?"

"Did I ever say I was trying to-to console you?"

"Well it seems it's a good thing I don't need consoling!"

"Bullshit."

Silence.

Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. He knew he really shouldn't have been listening, but with there raised voices, it was impossible to shut out. And he was trapped. He would have to cross the hallway, and ultimately, their line of vision, to get to any other room in the house. He was afraid to breathe, let alone finish arranging the papers. What would happen if they heard him?

"What did you just . . . ?" the Englishman slowly asked, voice wavering.

"Bull. Shit."

"How dare you speak to me li—"

"S'my house, Artie! I'll speak however I want, be it like a bell-bottom or the king," America said, donning an exaggerated English accent at the mention of the monarchy.

"T-to insult me is one thing! But to insult His Majesty! Why-why that's tr—"

"Treason? Maybe t'you, but I'm a free man."

There was pacing, and since America was sitting, it had to be England. Lithuania slowly, slowly rose to his feet and crept to the wall so as not to be seen if the Englishman passed by.

"And close the damn door. Just because I got a few clams saved up doesn't mean I wanna spend 'em all on heating my house."

Lithuania glanced over to the fireplace, picturing the stacks of wood in the cellar. The supply was running low. For some reason, America like his house very warm. And the cleaning was close to done, so Lithuania would have to—

An ear-breaking slam made him flinch. His head bumped the wall and he froze. England flew by, not bothering to be quiet as he ascended the stairs. He heard another creak as America stood, and footsteps as he took his turn to pace. Lithuania chanced a peek around the corner. A brow-knitted America with his hands on his waist entered the Baltic's line of vision. The blond looked up, and Lithuania jumped; the motion instantly attracted his eyes. Spotted!

America flashed a quick grin and started over, studying the floor. Lithuania wasn't sure if he should run or try to start conversation or . . . Lithuania turned, but America caught his shoulder.

"My advice?" he said quietly into the Baltic's ear, "Don't ever tell him what you really think of his cooking."

Lithuania blinked. The blond laughed; a devious twinkle lighting his eyes. He patted Lithuania's shoulder, then left to check on the others.

"Francis, vous pervers!" drifted the voice of a distressed Canadian. "Oh, and pass me the sugar?"

The door swung a little before it settled, deforming the Frenchman's chuckle.

England stayed in his room the rest of the night, and the three in the kitchen supposedly forgot about dinner, so Lithuania spent the rest of the night in his own room.

He thought about writing letters, but noted that he didn't really have anyone to write to. Latvia and Estonia were probably busy. He hadn't talked to them much since they followed suit in gaining independence, anyway. What would they talk about? How great it was to be free of Russia? They had already had that conversation. For a few minutes. Until reality hit. Lithuania frowned and settled on the edge of his bed. Truthfully, he didn't even contribute much to that conversation. He'd had his moment, and it was gone by the time the other two had theirs.

He could write to his government, but what was the point? If there were problems, he would have to leave to be able to do anything very affective. An ocean was a large obstacle. And if he left, he wouldn't be helping his economy any.

There was . . .

Belarus? Much too soon. It would definitely be awkward, after being married.

As hard as he wracked his brain, he came up blank on people; he needed friends, and that was a rather depressing thought he had never had before.

Lithuania decided to go to sleep, instead.

He woke up dark and early the next morning. At first, he thought he awoke too early, but when he checked the clock, it read a little past six. The sun wouldn't rise until at least an hour.

While he was alone the day before, he was able to prepare the guest rooms, as well as put away the laundry, which he was very thankful of as he dressed for the day. He wondered if America was that adept at planning, or if it all had been merely a large coincidence.

In the kitchen, he got himself a glass of water. A heavy-lidded France shuffled in, still in his robe and slippers.

"Lituanie," he greeted, bringing a hand down his face. It stopped at his stubble, where he rubbed his chin slightly.

"Prancūzija," Lithuania greeted back.

France winced. "En anglais, please." He lowered himself into a chair as he covered a yawn.

Lithuania's mouth twitched. Of course the great country of France would find the Baltic's language inferior.

"You are not supposed to be here," the great country of France pointed out in a singsong voice. "But do not fret, Lituanie, Big Brother France is good at keeping secrets."

Lithuania felt his face heat up. He completely forgot! France propped his head on a palm and chuckled at the brunette's expression. "How about some coffee, hm? Or wine? Does Amérique have wine? The . . . drinking age here . . ."

Blackmail. In a mild sense. But what was he to expect? Not even a year had passed. Lithuania was a little surprised America hadn't brought the subject up in the months he'd been there. Though he couldn't remember actually seeing the country when the decision was made. He remembered France, though. And England. And how France was against it.

"Vilnius was not enough." Lithuania couldn't wipe the frown from his face.

The Frenchman thought for a moment. "Mm, no. No, it was more enough. You are a country that walks around with a heart given to someone you do not like."

"I did not give it." His accusatory eyes locked with blue.

"Oh, I do not deserve all of the blame. Do you dislike me that much simply because I am friendly with la Pologne?"

Lithuania shook his head. "No."

"Envy, then?" France was now sitting straight, chin delicately resting on the tips of his fingers, smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

There was a sneeze, then Canada entered. He scratched his head and avoided eye contact, making it rather discernible he had been listening.

"Bonjour," France said amiably.

"Bon—"

"Haaaaaa-ppy Thanksgiving!" America bellowed as he entered, arms wide. He spun in a circle and grinned. And he obviously hadn't been listening. He saw Lithuania, wavered, then looked around. A cursory search with his eyes told him everything not meant to be seen was hidden, so he widened his grin even more.

Lithuania volunteered a small smile back. He was mostly smiling on the inside, glad for this small victory against France. Then he noticed how petty that was.

"Any coffee?"

"I will make some," he said.

England trudged in, blinked at the crowd, then lifted a wrist to check his watch. Seeing it wasn't there, he fiddled with his cuff's button. So as not to look silly? Lithuania knew he was the only one paying him any attention; did the Englishman think otherwise? He conjectured that it was possibly habit.

". . . Has any tea been—"

"Not yet, but Toris is on it," America said, taking the coffee ingredients from the Lithuanian.

After everyone was full of tea, or coffee, or both, Lithuania and England were abruptly banned from the kitchen. After the conversation the day before, Lithuania guessed America had given up on being subtle in the plan to keep the Englishman out.

The two stood for a moment outside the door. England muttered something along the lines of it being too cold, remembered the previous conversation with America, frowned, then told Lithuania he was going to take a shower, since the bloody bathtub drain was missing, and that he was sorry he couldn't be proper company at the moment.

The Baltic was selfishly looking forward to entertaining England as means of salvaging his soured morning. With that hope dashed, he ambled into the living room, and sat on the floor next to the stack of newspapers that hadn't been moved. He raised a hand and took a look around. Which was unnecessary. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. Habit. Rifling through the papers from where he sat was difficult, so he transferred the stack to the ground in front of him.

Starting from the a little before the top was a paper that had a photograph of a girl on the front. He skimmed through, finding out she was Miss America. Miss America? Lithuania knew America's borders went from ocean to ocean, but . . . there were two? His brow furrowed and he quickly grabbed from the bottom.

Bhagat Singh Thind. Lithuania wasn't sure what language that was, but he guessed it was a name. There was a picture of a ship on the next, and then an interview with someone who had started a magazine. The fourth paper from the bottom wasn't very eye-catching. He read over the article. Theory of Evolution? He noticed there were dates in the corner.

A Yankee Stadium opened in April. Was Yankee a new sport? No . . . it had something to do with baseball. Southeastern Michigan received six inches of snow in May. Did it really snow that long in America? Michigan was somewhere west. Maybe it was just colder, there. Another one in May about the Klu Klux Klan. There was a picture of people with pointed hoods on their heads. Lithuania wondered if they believed they had the Holy Grail, like Spain thought he did.

He flipped through some more. There were many copies of September issues, coming from all over the country. There was news about ships. In California and New Jersey. No, in California they were destroyers. More news about California; pictures of roaring fires covered the front pages. The next newspaper was toward the end of September, notifying that the newspaper printers' strike ended.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. A dressed France was playing with his shirt buttons, walking slowly back to the kitchen. He glanced over, and seeing he had Lithuania's attention, broke out into a sly smile. "Bonjour," he said in his friendly voice.

Lithuania went back to looking through the papers. A frown hung heavy before he could stop it. To his dismay, France sauntered in and sat on the kitchen chair. He picked up a paper, presumably to read it. He made a guttural sound and crossed his legs.

Before he realized what he was doing, Lithuania looked up.

"Amérique had quite a September."

Lithuania nodded slightly, turning his head a little.

"Quite a fire. I wonder if anyone was injured." There was silence for a minute as France read. "Hm. Amérique has very . . . heroic young people." France laughed.

"You bet I do!" America said, entering the room. Canada was right behind him. "Oh, lookin' through the paper? Whaddo you think? Pretty exciting, huh?" He grinned.

There was silence. Lithuania flinched when it occurred to him that he had to answer. What was he supposed to say to that? "I-it was . . . very different than my year," the Baltic replied, careful to not look at France. No, that was the wrong thing to say! "Yes, exciting." He tried to smile.

America picked up a paper. It was the one with the strange name on it. He made a face, then dropped it. "Different. That's swell! So, what were you doing in February?"

Lithuania had tried not to remember. He didn't want to forget, but he didn't want to remember. And then America had to ask him that. "I was busy," he said quickly. In his concentration with not looking at America, his eyes met France's. Dievas.

"Honhon, busy? How vague, Lituanie! Just tell us what you were doing—let's say . . . around the middle of the month? Oui?"

Lithuania didn't blink. He didn't look away. "I celebrated my birthday. On the sixteenth. It was small, since that month was busy."

France's eyes changed when the date clicked. His face lost its confident look. "Oh?"

"Aw, well. Happy belated birthday," America offered. "Hey, but now that I know, I can through you a surprise party for next year."

"It is not much of a surprise party if you tell him," France said with a snort. He stood.

America shrugged. "Just a party, then."

"Ah! Do you not see the value of secrecy?"

The blond flapped a hand. "I'm young. I don't need to know the value of secrecy."

France clucked, not amused. "At least you know how to cook," he said in a voice that indicated he was lowering his expectations of the nation.

"That puts my food higher than Artie's?"

"I did not say it tastes good."

"Hey, of course it tastes good! Otherwise you wouldn't be such a crasher all the time," America pointed out.

France tipped his head back and laughed. "Touche. Come, come. Let us finish so we can eat tonight." He walked out of the room.

America trailed a little behind. "You know, it's normal when people here say it. But hearing a Frenchman say touche?"

There was another laugh that was cut off by the kitchen door closing.

Lithuania sighed and cradled his head in his hands.

"I take it something bad happened?"

The Baltic flinched and straightened. With all that was going on, he had forgotten the Canadian, who was now seated on the couch against the wall facing him.

"In February, I mean."

Lithuania felt a sad smile. His mouth tasted almost bitter and he was afraid that if he spoke, his words would be. So, he nodded.

"And . . . it has to do with love? Ah—no, your capital."

He froze, no longer smiling. The Canadian was the one eavesdropping, he recalled.

Canada's face reddened at his slip. If he thought he got away with it earlier, he knew that now, he definitely made himself known. "S-sorry, I didn't mean to. I just . . . I heard you two talking, and didn't want to interrupts, so—I was going to walk away! But . . . then . . . I sneezed."

Lithuania understood. "What happened to my capital is not a secret matter," he said after a deep breath.

Canada's eyebrows raised. "What did happen?"

Lithuania opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. ". . . I suppose spite happened."

America jumped into view. "Hey, Mattie, whatcha doing sitting there? We need you! Wouldn't it be nice to eat before you leave?"

Canada's eyes were focused on Lithuania, but the Baltic knew that he wasn't what they were looking at. With a second call from his brother, he blinked. "Coming."

Alone again, Lithuania re-stacked the papers and placed them back in the chair. Over by the bookshelf, he hesitantly selected a book to read. A little later, England joined him, his own novel in hand. There was a nodded greeting shared, and then both countries settled to the ticking of the clock.

Suddenly, someone was shaking him. But a quick look outside the window said it wasn't sudden at all. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut and tensed, because there wasn't room to stretch; all four blonds were around him.

"Good evening," America greeted amicably.

"Good . . ." Lithuania cleared his throat. "How long . . .?"

"It's about six," Canada told him.

The Baltic sat up, book dropping to the floor. "Is it time to eat? I'm sorry to keep you waiting, I-I didn't—it wasn't my intention to—"

"Hey, no problem. There's still an hour."

"Oh." He sank back into the couch cushions, then straightened again. "Do you need help?"

"No . . ."

He bounced between gazes, all focused on him. Goosebumps crawled up his neck at the unnerving feeling. "Is . . . is something wrong?"

"No."

Lithuania furrowed his brow. If there wasn't an emergency, it wasn't time to eat, and they didn't need help, why were they all there? If England somehow got into the kitchen, then it would seem America would be less . . . cheerful. It was almost irritating how he wouldn't just tell him. But Lithuania would keep his temper. America liked guessing games. Games . . .

"Am I in the way? Do you need the couch to play a game?"

America's eyebrows shot up. "No, but now that you mention it—who wants to make a fort?"

England rolled his eyes and France looked up at the ceiling, but Canada thought it was a good idea.

"How 'bout it?" he asked Lithuania.

"I will try."

"Whoopee! Majority rules—Artie, can you go get the sheets from the linen closet? Francis, you're in charge of getting weights. Mattie? You get the chairs from the kitchen." America rubbed his hands together. "And you, Toris, can help me arrange the furniture."

For a good fifteen minutes, the five countries pushed, pulled, tossed, flattened, weighted, scooted and touched up until their fort was stable, and they could all sit cross-legged inside. America had music playing and a deck of cards, which France was busy shuffling.

"Ah, Mi—Alfred?" Lithuania asked as he cut the deck.

"Yeah, what is it, buddy?"

"What about the food? It will not burn?"

"Oh, we sorta finished early, so now we're just waiting for the turkey."

"Nothing will spoil?"

"Naw, everything's fine."

Canada started humming to the music and America joined in with the lyrics. It made it obvioius that the three Europeans were not familiar with the song. Lithuania recognized it a little, but not enough to sing along.

They started with Slapjack, because nearly everyone basically knew how to play, and the rules were simple. Lithuania was not quite sure how, but he soon caught on.

France was the first to lose all of his cards. England had a smug grin plastered on his face, since he was the one to slap the jack causing the loss. France leaned back against the couch. "It will not be so funny when you lose all of your cards, too."

"Then I will just have to keep them."

"Best wishes, Angleterre. Hopefully your card-playing is better than your cooking."

"Okay, if Artie wins, he gets to go in the kitchen and make some tea to go with dinner," America declared, cutting off England's retort.

"If only I had payed more attention to the game. It would be too bad if my getting out is the reason we die from that poison."

"Poison? I can make a better cup of tea than you any day," England insisted the same time Canada said, "Don't worry, you still have a chance to get back in."

Lithuania just so happened to be the one to provide that chance. He flipped his card over onto the pile in the middle, but like lightning, America's hand got there first.

France sighed. "I need to check on the turkey, anyway." He crawled out of the entrance.

America chuckled and put down and eight.

About half an hour later, they all crawled out, England laughing and America frowning.

"Guess who still finds it funny," the Englishman said, arms crossed and leaning against the wall by the kitchen, to the Frenchman.

France pursed his lips. "Well, pardon my French when I say: vas te faire encule."

Canada's eyes widened. England snorted. "Just let me by, Frog. I have poison to make."

Lithuania still wasn't allowed in the kitchen, but he had the company of Canada and America; the latter blond deciding they had to show off their dancing. There wasn't much room in the hallway, but with the living room occupied by sheets, blankets, and all of the kitchen chairs, it was the ideal place. America hopped through the obstacle course to change the song, and Lithuania blanched when he recognized it.

"Mi—Alfred . . ."

". . . The Charleston?" Canada asked. "There's no way. Not in this hall."

"Okay, okay. So we won't dance. But I think we should have a contest."

"Contest?"

"Yep! Take off your shoes, both of you."

Just then, France swung open the door to the kitchen. "To the dining room! Dinner is done," he announced before disappearing again.

For some reason, Lithuania felt nervous. His stomach knotted and his heart beat faster. It was time. He didn't know why America kept it all a secret from him, and he hadn't really been curious. But now, it was as if his mind flipped.

He and Canada followed America to the dining room. The music trailed behind and Lithuania was vaguely aware of a new song starting. He hadn't been in the dining room often, since America preferred eating in the kitchen. The dining room had a stuffy feel to it, even though the ceiling was higher, and it was the largest room in the house. The table was bigger, chairs had higher backs, and there was a simple chaneliere dangling above the table's center.

America led them to the farther end of the table, had Lithuania left of the head and Canada on the right. Then he returned to the kitchen.

The Baltic shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The table was already set; the wood underneath polished and glowing a warm brown. Lithuania could see his hand's reflection as he moved, straightened, then moved his fork. France burst through the doors and he quickly set his fork down again. The Frenchman had a bottle in hand. Lithuania's eyes widened.

"Wine?" Canada asked quietly in disbelief. "What about Alfred's prohibition—"

"I have never heard of anything so silly! If I was able to bring this—" he waved the bottle "—then it must not be serious, oui?"

"What . . . about the pilgrims?"

France frowned. "What about the pilgrims, Matthieu?" he asked flatly.

"Th-they probably didn't have wine, so we shouldn't drink it, either."

The older blond rolled his eyes. "This is Amérique you are talking about."

"So?"

France sat the bottle on the end of the table, clearly thinking. "So what about his Independence day? Should he go back to having only thirteen states because he didn't have forty-eight back then?"

Canada deflated. ". . . No."

France smiled. "Then wine we shall have."

"I say we shall not!" England declared, stepping into the room. He came up to the Frenchman and reached for the bottle. "No one wants to see you drunk, Frog."

France grinned and held it above his head. Even though he and England were the same height, the Englishman refused to get close enough to reach it. France laughed. "What you really mean is that you don't want anyone to see you drunk, oui?"

England's mouth fell open. "You—Bastard!" He reached for the bottle, but France swung around.

Right as America entered the room.

The bottle nailed him in the back of the head; the top half of his body bent forward with shock and the impact, and he hit the table with a slap. The bottle, however, slipped out of the Frenchman's grasp, flew into the chandelier, and dropped in the space between Canada and Lithuania, glass shattering. Lithuania did not watch that part of the spectacle, for he knew what was coming next, so closed his eyes and whipped his head to the side for safety.

Upon blinking cautiously, he saw Canada had done a similar thing, that France was frozen with an arm extended out over the table, and England's mouth was still hanging open, but this time from surprise instead of angry disbelief. America was somewhere on the floor, one arm slipping off the table.

"Mi—Alfred, are you all right?"

There was a groan, and the other arm fell.

France looked down, his face reddened, and he slowly brought his own arm back to his body.

England disappeared, kneeling beside the American.

"Who brought the wine?" came a weary voice.

"Moi," France answered after a moment. He, Lithuania, and Canada exchanged uneasy glances.

America found his feet and England rose next to him, looking ready to spring if the American lost his balance. But the American rolled his shoulders and walked back to the door. "Looks like we're eating in the kitchen," he noted as he left.

Everyone stood, rather bewildered, for a moment. Then Lithuania stood. "I-I think I will change into something fresh." He didn't need to gesture to his stained shirt for the others to understand. Canada mumbled something along the lines of the same thing, and they both exited. On his way to his room, Lithuania heard America rummaging through the icebox.

Ten solid minutes later, everyone was seated around the kitchen table. Canada and Lithuania were in clean clothes, and America had a band-aid on his forehead. His glasses were crooked, but no one dared to comment. The wine was sopped up by old rages and it was decided that England and France were to clean up the glass after dinner, and even though they refused to get along, the two would do it. America was in charge of his house.

"Okay. Anything else? No more wine bottles or arguments?"

Everyone shook their heads.

America grinned. "Good. Because I'm hungry." And even though he said that, nobody grabbed for the delicious-smelling food. He made a gesture, and the other blonds, familiar with this, reached to join hands. France on his right and England on his left, he followed suit.

America joined hands with France and Canada. He smiled. "Hm . . . I'm thankful for Earle Dickson, for this food . . . and I'm thankful that I get to eat it with people that care for me. And for the turkey not becoming the national bird." He looked at Canada.

"I'm, um, thankful for being able to have a meal with my brothers." He glanced at France. "All of them."

England pulled in a breath. "I am . . . thankful for a—a warm, pleasant place to be this Thursday night."

Everyone looked at Lithuania, who reddened at the attention. So it was his turn All he had to do was say what he was thankful for? It didn't matter what? Well, of course it did. And everyone sounded like they were telling the truth. He closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I am thankful for the distance the ocean puts between here and my home."

There was silence for a moment. Then he felt France shift, and he opened his eyes. "I am thankful for the beauty that surrounds me, and the lack of English cooking . . . though it might not have been so bad with four people supervising."

"Git," England muttered. And with that, dinner was served.

There were many snide remarks, though they didn't seem to hold the venom they usually did, and jokes, as well as anecdotes of previous Thanksgiving dinners, and somehow the conversations kept circling back to either America's head or England's cooking.

When Lithuania politely pushed his plate back and said he was full, everyone else told him politely that is was customary to eat until he had to unbutton his pant. Upon the look that took hold of his face, everyone cracked up, and his plate was refilled, with cranberry sauce, turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, ham, and corn-on-the-cob.

He didn't have to unbutton his pants when he took his final bite, though. His stomach wouldn't take any more; he felt it would burst if he even had to look at another forkful of food. Canada and England were trying to cover yawns, and France's plate was shoved toward the middle of the table to make room for his elbows, which propped up his hands that his chin was resting on. America was slumped in his chair, staring at the ceiling with a sleepy, serene look on his face.

Lithuania had no idea how, that even though they ate so much, the table still wasn't lacking in food. They had called it a meal, but it was a feast.

Canada got up and cleared the table, then set out smaller plates and brought out the pies. Pecan, lemon, and pumpkin stared dauntingly at the Baltic. Oh, no. There was no way he could eat even a single slice. France groaned, but cut himself a very thin piece. On the other hand, America took a very big piece. England looked at the cake as a child might look at a huge place of unwanted vegetables, and he reached for his tea. Lithuania squeezed his eyes shut. There was no way.

"I-I'm sorry." He slowly pushed his chair away from the table.

America, hovering over his pie, fork poised in hand, looked up at Lithuania rather blankly. "What?"

"I . . . I cannot eat any more." He shook his head as if to emphasize.

The blond blinked, looked at his pie, then back up at the Baltic. "Oh. That's fine." He grinned. "We probably should let out stomachs settle before digging into dessert, anyway." He groaned as he stood, motioned everyone else to stand, then brought his arms up with flourish, and lead them all to the living room.

One by one they crawled into the fort. They tried laying down, but their stomachs protested, so they settled on sitting in a circle. It was rather stuffy in there, so America crawled back out to try and make what he called a window. With his first attempts, the top sunk, and there were various exclamations of surprise. America's response was mischievous laughter. When the top was finally fixed, and a window was in place—which America stuck his arm through, rousing another round of complaints—the blond crawled back in.

"So . . ." he started, settling against the couch Lithuania was leaning back on. "Got any jokes?"

Everyone thought for a moment. "I-I do not think it . . . will . . . trans-translate well," the Baltic mumbled.

France shrugged. "And you English-speakers to not appreciate my jokes."

"You bloody git—you know you think my humor is too dry."

America sighed. "Okay fine," he said, not denying any of it. "How about cards?"

Everyone sort of agreed. They decided on Crates, because after some explaining, they realized they were all familiar with the game. Though a bit into it, Canada and America started arguing about the rules. France left because "the shitty English tea" was upsetting his stomach, England stabbing him with insults all the way out.

Lithuania found himself rather sleepy. Even though there was a window, it was hot inside the fort. That coupled with the amount of food he had to go through only made his eyelids heavier. Plus, he was so comfortable. All the pillows England could find were in the fort; they made it that much harder to stay conscious. The Baltic resisted a yawn and watched the commotion a moment more, before feeling himself slouch. It didn't seem important to stay awake. It was obvious America and Canada weren't planning on agreeing anytime soon—especially since England joined the argument. And when it was time for pie, they would wake him up. He was sure of it.


AN;; (- whoa-I figured out how to change the sizes. This is so cool~!)

I wonder what it'd be like if everyone knew every language in the world.

Okay, onto the story. I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LACK OF PLOT AND THIS IS, LIKE, 6 THOUSAND SOMETHING WORDS AND FOR THERE TO BE NO PLOT SEEMS WORSE THAN BLASPHEMY I KNOW.

D :

But I did try to sneak a few things in there, if you can catch them (most of the things mentioned below are not the things that were sneaked. Otherwise they wouldn't be sneaky).

Do you have any idea how hard it is to write happy chapters? 1923 (the year this is taking place jsyk-cyber cookies to all the detectives that already figured it out~) is just. AH.

Lithuania had a planned revolt to get the Klaipėda Region, which apparently Poland, France, and I-don't-remember-who-else wanted. He was given it in January, but then in February, the League of Nations gave Vilnius to Poland! I read somewhere that after that, Russia was Lithuania's only friend, and I was like: "Yeah, Russia. Just go and be friendly and be all BECOME ONE behind his back, why don'tcha."

From what I read (and interpreted) France really wanted Klaipeda for some reason. Which is some of the tension you see. That, and I can't exactly see the two getting along very well.

If you're behind someone's back, wouldn't that logically mean you're in front of them? I don't understand . . .

As for the newspapers-I pretty much googled for information on America in 1923. Or, like, events and such. September was quite a month!

America and Canada fighting over Crates (Crazy 8's)? I read that we have different rules than Canadians, so. :3

My deepest apologies, by the way. I was, like, nearly finished with this chapter when it occurred to me that-hey! I should look up on wiki and see what France's, England's, and Canada's personalities are!

If you read through the whole chapter and went raving mad at their OOC-ness, again, I'm sorry.

What else, what else... Uhhhh

I have no idea what most people eat for Thanksgiving. At my house, we have turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green beans, and black olives. Yeah, I don't really know why we eat olives, but they're there. I think one year we had rice, because we were out of potatoes. It didn't taste right at all, and it's EXTREMELY hard to dip turkey in rice.

What's figgy pudding? Is that even what it's called? You don't have to answer that.

OHYEAH GRAVY I FORGOT THE GRAVY MY BAD. I hate gravy. They'll have it next year. /ohsobiased

Have you ever tried translating jokes into different languages? It . . . doesn't usually work. Or else my experiences have just been bad.

I wonder if anyone actually reads all this.

Yes, back to earlier! It's hard to write happy chapters, but I promise things will get better later on! They reeeeeeaallly will.

Oh, and can anyone name the disorder Lithuania's suffering from?

Typing of Lithuania, did you know that in the early 20th century the average height of Lithuanian males was about 163 cm? or . . . what would that be . . . gah, I hate converting. They teach us both in school, but hardly remind us of the conversion formula . . . about 5'4"? Something like that. And they were really thin. Well, that's what Wikipedia says.

Am I going to use this information to my advantage? Why, yes. Yes of course I am~

I think that was all I wanted to mention. Gosh, these things keep getting longer and longer. I'll try to keep the next one short. : )

EDIT... I feel so silly. The size didn't change when this was saved, so erase the first part of the note from your mind, please.

And for some reason I forgot to mention-Earle D. (I forgot how to spell his last name) invented the Band-Aid.