A/N: Thank you all for reading and being so kind. :] Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be fixed after publication. Btw, if you haven't gotten a reply to your review, I truly apologize. FFnet is still being wacky and not sending me emails on time.

Notes: -Also, why do I see Spain and Romano dancing in this video: h t t p :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= pHSx1YnB9vM&feature=related. And Gilbert (because he's awesome, but probably can't dance to save his life, like me) and Feliciano here: h t t p :/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= VYsWfcntEw8&feature=related I almost wrote a sidestory based on this, but scrapped it because…eh…
-About doujinshi…there will be a delay, probably to summer. I apologize! But here's this sample/practice doujin page I snatched from Jyro's account - h t t p:/ ctd-ptp -fanclub. deviantart. com/#/d3ccftf She's really busy with school and whatnot (hehe, me too, I'm just dumb enough to keep working on this), so go cheer her on!
-I'm going to try to not get into the mpreg too much, but here's hormonal!Alfred because a reviewer mentioned that. (I'm sorry, I made Alfred sort of strange. oTL|||) Oh, and another reviewer wanted more parents fluffy moments. I…I tried. ;A; Fluff without getting too cheesy is hard. Crack is easier to write, lol.
-Airlines in the 1960s, so you can understand: h t t p :/ mysite .verizon .net/vze6l53f/ what flying was like inthe1960s/ Gourmet airplane food and good services actually existed.

Edit: omgod, i didnt notice i published the unedited version of chapter 14 until now. pft.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

December 1, 1960, hotel suite, London, England, 7:16 A.M…

The first thing America thought of when he woke up was how warm the bed was. Yesterday night he had finally succeeded in forcing Russia to sleep on the hotel couch, but the bed really wasn't much better. The sheets were starchy and stiff and cold, sort of like England when he was pissed. It was better than nothing; after all, he was a hero, and heroes didn't crash in the living room. But America slept fitfully, waking up every hour or so to make sure that the Russian maniac wasn't standing over him with a faucet pipe.

The lady from the airport back in New York had approached Russia and America just as they reached the gate, anxiously proclaiming that she'd just discovered the seats on the flight to Paris were all taken, and she'd made a mistake. Russia might not have cared, for whatever strange reason, but that meant that they'd have to stop at London instead before hopping onto another flight to Paris. Unfortunately, the blond could still remember the flight, which seemed like the longest damn flight in the world, with Russia at his side and beaming that infuriatingly annoying smile. It was even worse than a naked France chasing him around the town.

Okay. Maybe not as bad as that, but it was close.

But most of all America recalled the moment when he woke up on the plane, the fact that he'd fallen asleep on Braginski's shoulder hitting him like a ton of lead. It was absolutely humiliating, because Russia could've mutilated him or something him while he was knocked out.

The alarm clock apparently said that it was seven in the morning, or something close to that, since he couldn't really tell without his glasses. He woke with a face full of what he thought were blankets, which wasn't a reason to panic, so he wrapped his arms and leg around the bundle and closed his eyes. But then the blankets started squirming, and America rolled back in shock and tumbled down onto the carpet.

For a second, the words lodged in his throat. It couldn't be Russia, that wasn't possible. Why would he have any reason to share his bed, anyways?

America was hoping he'd imagined the bed sheets moving on its own, that he was delusional because he barely got any sleep last night, but then came the terrible moment when Russia's head poked out of the covers, muttering indistinctively. The blond suppressed a girlish shriek (again, heroes didn't scream, that was Italy's job) and snatched the alarm clock, holding it above his head like he was going to chuck it. But Russia's eyes remained shut, the blankets rising and falling in an even pattern.

There was no way he was ever going to go back to sleep on that bed. He was frozen on his spot for about two minutes, watching Russia warily, for he was unsure of what to do. He was tiptoeing around the room and headed for the living room when Russia started to smile slowly, his eyes still closed.

America thought he would collapse right there from shock. He bit his lip, a small squeaky noise emitting from his throat; apparently, Russia was just dreaming. Who knew what the hell he was dreaming about?

Despite being quite threatening even when unconscious, America couldn't help but notice how normal (he couldn't believe he was thinking this) the man appeared. Russia almost looked like a regular human male, at the most twenty-five, like someone he would want to talk to…

No. Russia was Russia, and nothing could ever change that. This was all an unlucky accident, him getting paired up with Braginski. But he was in London now, he could see Iggy and ask him if he'd seen Adrian and Michael…now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen Arthur in a long time. He wondered if that was why he felt more distant to him. He wondered if Russia was the reason that he didn't mind.

That was when the room started spinning. America rushed into the bathroom, and the next thing he knew he was bent over the sink, as if he was sick. Nothing came out after five minutes, but he remained in that position, his eyes wide with anxiety. He was certain he didn't drink last night. Had he eaten something bad on the plane? or was it from the hotel restaurant? Or maybe—

"America?"

He looked up at Russia, who was leaning on the doorframe. America rinsed his mouth, spitting the water out distastefully. "What do you want?"

"Are you feeling sick, perhaps?"

America gaped at him, suddenly very cautious. "Did you—"

"No, America. If you are indeed sick, I promise you I had nothing to do with it." He smirked, adding, "Maybe it is from eating that trash you call hamburgers."

He scowled, pushing the man aside to retrieve his glasses. "It's none of your business, Braginski."

"I am not joking," Russia said patiently. "American food is—ow!"

The blond snickered. "What's the matter, commie? Your stomach hurting? That's what you get for dissing good American food—"

For once, Russia seemed too bewildered to reply with a witty comeback; instead, he raised his hand and laid his palm on his forehead, where a piercing sting had struck for reasons unknown. "My head hurts," he said stiffly, his mouth curving into an awful smile. "Did you just throw something at me, America?"

America didn't know how to answer that; the question didn't make much sense. "If I did then you would've seen me, right?" he slowly said. Personally, he'd prefer to throw an entire truck on Russia, but he assumed that even then the man would probably still be alive if he did.

Russia was silent. He turned and walked away, his hand rubbing the center of his forehead. America huffed and stared out the window, gazing at London's ice-glazed streets. He didn't care what happened to Russia, he told himself. The man might as well jump off a cliff.

But if he believed that so fiercely (or so he thought), then why was he still uneasy?

December 1, 1960, hotel room, Paris, France, 8:17 A.M…

Ivan nearly scared himself silly when he opened the bathroom door and found a bedraggled Alfred leaning over the sink, his shirt disheveled and hair in disarray. He also learned that even when Alfred was posing as Allie, he could still manage to look like a hobo if he wanted to.

"Alfred…?"

The American raised his head, glaring. Nantucket almost looked like it was bent out of shape (Ivan hoped he imagined that). "What?"

Ivan was sure that Alfred had been fine yesterday night (maybe even more than fine, judging by the number of random guys approaching him at dinner), so why was he acting up now? "Are you feeling alright?"

The answer was brief and uncharacteristically icy. "I feel like shit." He rinsed his mouth, smacking his lips as he grimaced at his own reflection. "My mouth tastes like shit."

The Russian pressed his hand to Alfred's forehead, his brows creased in apprehension. "You do not have a fever…"

He grasped Ivan's hand immediately and lowered it to his cheek, sighing tiredly. "Your hands are cool." He didn't speak for a few seconds after that, but then his eyes opened and the glowering resumed. "I want to eat breakfast."

"Do you want sa—"

"I don't want salad. I hate salad."

Ivan blinked, confused. "But yesterday you said—"

The blond flicked Ivan's forehead, the sudden pain stunning him. "I know what I said," Alfred snapped. "I want scones. Like the ones Iggy makes. And ice cream."

That was definitely unexpected. "You want to eat England's scones—?" He paused, noticing that Alfred's hands were balling up into fists, as if he was going to throw a punch. "I will see if they have any."

Ivan spun on his heels, making a break for it in case Alfred decided to fling the glass cup at his head, but the blond stopped him by wrapping his arms around his shoulders, burying his face into the taller man's back.

"Hey," he murmured softly, the venom gone from his voice. "Thanks."

He allowed Alfred to stay there for as long as he wanted, although his mind was racing, pondering the reasons and possibilities regarding Alfred's behavior. He had this feeling that the answer was obvious, and that he was being an idiot by not being able to recall it, but truthfully, most of his concentration was set on wondering where he was going to find burnt scones without England's help and remembering the directions to the ice cream parlor.

He also had a feeling that if he screwed this up, Alfred would lock himself in the bathroom and never come out.

November 30, 1960, airport, Manhattan, 1:50 P.M…

Ludwig had managed to successfully lead the group to the airport in one piece (more or less), and he was especially glad that he actually had enough money for the ride (Lovino screamed at him for using modern money, but he felt that this was an emergency). But now he was met with a problem.

He had ten dollars left in his wallet; with the inflation during this time period, ten dollars weren't even enough to fly domestic. Suddenly, seventy-five dollars seemed like a gold mine. He was certain he had at least four hundred emergency cash tucked in his shirt pocket, and now Ludwig wondered if the cabbie had swiped his money when he was distracted by Lovino or something (although that seemed like a ridiculous notion).

The brunette clasped his hand around Ludwig's, swinging his arm slightly and oblivious to the jealous travelers shooting dirty looks at Ludwig. Feliciano and Lovino were probably the only female-figures in the midst of these overly-well dressed businessmen. Feliciano piped up, "Ludwig, do you remember what happened when you were Holy Roman Empire?"

"Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "That coat you're wearing, the one you took from the studio, reminds me of him. Or you." Feliciano broke out in a peal of laughter, and the crowd's fixated stare on the blond intensified even further. "I'm not sure anymore. Just wondering."

"Not much." Ludwig brushed Feliciano's bangs back idly. "I remember you."

That earned him a pleased smile. "Ve, Ludwig, I don't think big brother France knows."

"Let's keep it that way."

"Okay," Feliciano said, letting his head rest on Ludwig's shoulder. Then he blinked, as if startled. "Ludwig, that man keeps staring at us."

"Who?"

"That tall person over there, with the briefcase."

"Ignore him," he replied, his eyes trained on the line to the ticket counter. If he hadn't seen the sign on the building, he would've thought the place to be some rundown bus station. Why was he even standing in line? He didn't have enough cash…should he bribe the agent? No, that wouldn't be right and would certainly cause a commotion…

"You better not have been saying weird stuff to my brother, Potato." Lovino crossed his arms and tapped his feet, making a clack-clack on the marble floor. "This is taking forever. Can't you make the line go faster?"

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. "No," he said flatly.

Lovino grinded his teeth in frustration. "Listen, Potato, we've been waiting for half an hour. I want to find my kid and get the hell away from here, because my feet are going to break if I do not get out of these damn heels."

"I can carry you, Lovi! I don't mind at all!"

"Then let Spain carry you," he muttered back mindlessly.

He regretted that a millisecond later, when Lovino instantly burst out in anger, "Why don't you try and stand in heels, asshole? I'd like to see you try—"

Ludwig whipped around, panicked and very much aware of the other travelers eyeing them in astonishment. "Romano, I didn't mean that, but please be quiet for now—"

"Don't tell me what to do—dammit, what is it, Veneziano?"

"That man over there is still looking at us…"

"So? It's probably some lonely basement creeper who can't get laid, just ignore him..." Lovino turned away carelessly, his arms folded, indicating a sign of increasing impatience.

"But…" he continued, tightening his grip on Ludwig's arm, "but he's headed our way, ve."

That caught Ludwig's attention. "What?"

The businessman looked as though he was squinting at them; once he got close enough, he took off his hat and exclaimed in astonishment, "Mein Gott, it's Mr. Beilschmidt. What are you doing here?" He glanced at Feliciano. "And who is this?"

The blond was at a loss for words. "I-I'm sorry, but I don't—"

The man laughed, thinking Ludwig to be joking. "I almost didn't recognize you with your hair down, sir. It's just as well, I was going to call to tell you that Mr. Jones could not be here for the scheduled meeting…actually, they don't know where he is at the moment—" He tapped his lips, smiling. "I've taken care of the other items on the agenda, though. But really, I was not expecting you to show up. Have you just arrived, Mr. Beilschmidt?"

He got it. This guy used to be his assistant, Klaus Wern-something-or-the-other, he couldn't quite recall. "Uh, no…I'm actually on my way to Munich." Wait a minute, that was it! The assistant could help him! "Mister, er, Werner—"

"Walther," the man corrected, but he waved it away quickly. "You want to go to Munich? To be honest, sir, I don't think it was such a wise idea for you to leave West Germany without giving word. But I can accompany you back if you wish."

"That would be great. Let's go, Feliciano."

His assistant stopped walking and cocked his head, astounded. "Feliciano? As in Feliciano Vargas?"

Oh, shit. Was he not supposed to mention that? "N-no…? I meant—" He cleared his throat, noticing that Feliciano hadn't spoken, but was watching him with careful eyes, waiting for his husband to speak his mind. "I meant to say 'Feliciana'. She's my…my close acquaintance."

The man blinked and gestured to Lovino, who was busy untangling himself from Antonio's embrace and swearing in Italian. "What about them?"

"That's Feliciana's sister, Lovina, and her husband. We just happened to see them here…random coincidence, like this one…"

He prayed that Walther wouldn't pursue the matter further, and he was rewarded with a shrug as his assistant patted his hat back on his head, recovering from his initial shock. "I see," he said, nodding. "That makes sense. It's only that they reminded me of the representatives from the world meeting. Especially Miss Feliciana. She's even got Mr. Vargas's curl." His voice lowered to a hush as he leaned towards Ludwig. "I thought you weren't on very good terms with Mr. Feliciano Vargas, sir."

"I'm…not?"

Walther's whisper had only been meant for Ludwig, but the blond understood perfectly well that Feliciano had heard it, for the Italian was digging his nails harder into his arm. "I had imagined so. You demanded last week that all contact with him to be put on hold unless it is a political emergency."

"Oh." He could see Feliciano's lips quivering out of the corner of his eyes, and he had to gulp down the guilt building up.

"Frankly, sir, you haven't been interacting with anyone save for your brother. Speaking of your brother, you wanted me to request a meeting with him, but I was unable to reach Mr. Braginski to confirm that." He gave a small smile to Feliciano, whose face was as blank as a slate of marble. "I sincerely apologize for intruding so suddenly, Miss Feliciana."

"It's okay," he answered, relinquishing his hold on Ludwig. He beamed at Walther cheerfully, but Ludwig could tell that he was faking it. "You didn't interrupt anything."

Walther nodded, somewhat disturbed by the uncanny similarities between this person and Feliciano Vargas. "I see. Well then, I might have to steal Mr. Beilschmidt for a few minutes, will that be alright?"

"Of course."

"Feliciano—I mean—"

His assistant forced a grin at Ludwig, but his eyes were livid. He led Ludwig away to the ticket counter roughly, where he slid a small plastic card to the agent. "Please never do that again, sir," he hissed, his polite demeanor melting away. "I'll bet that the whole office is looking for you right now, it's a wonder they haven't called me yet. We can't have runaway countries while the economy is still healing; I must say that this is a very poor time to make an escapade with your girlfriend. How come you've never mentioned Miss Feliciana?"

Ludwig threw an anxious glance at the others while Walther collected their tickets. He'd upset Feliciano, but he couldn't console him if Walther stuck with them. "I believe that is none of your concern," he retorted sharply.

"I'm afraid it is, sir," Walther replied, as if he was used to such behavior from Ludwig. "Everyone at the office understands that this is a difficult time for you, but you need to step out now. If Miss Feliciana is the reason that your health is improving, then I am glad. She isn't a nation, is she?"

"…no."

There was a lull in their empty argument, and the assistant sighed. "I don't think I can get any more out of you, sir, although you seem to be faring better." He pursed his lips, turning his head to look at Feliciano more carefully. "Am I overstepping my boundaries to ask the reason of why you are bringing Miss Feliciana to Munich?" he finally asked.

Ludwig considered this; for a frightening moment, he had difficulties conjuring the image of his daughter. "We are searching for someone very important to us."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Does this have anything to do with Feliciano Vargas?"

He didn't know how to answer that without letting slip too much information. "That is none of your concern," Ludwig repeated blandly.

To his surprise and relief, Walther didn't question him. "Very well, sir."

November 30, 1960, street, Munich, West Germany, 7:50 P.M…

Italy wondered if something was wrong with him; he'd been meaning to talk with Germany like they'd done before the war, and when the chance presented itself he ran. He couldn't even tell where he was. The snow had accumulated rather fast, and Italy had only the lights from the Christmas market to guide him.

"W-well, I did have a first love…"

"So you did, that's—"

"It…was another boy though. I'm sorry!"

At the end of the street, somewhere around the edge of the market, was a small flower stall manned by an old lady reclining in a rickety chair. Italy hadn't intended to stop, but a bouquet of roses caught his eye.

"I didn't know if you'd like it, but I got some…"

"Flowers?"

"I-it's mentioned in those Greek myths you liked, so that's why I picked it."

"Um…thanks, Germany. But Germany giving me flowers…does that mean…?"

That seemed like a lifetime ago. Italy handed the old lady some coins and picked out a single carnation, its scarlet petals delicately preserved and made brittle by the frost. The children in the park were chasing each other towards the market, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues. But in the dark and cold they were little more than shadows and blurs, and every time Italy saw them he remembered the little boy who'd promised him that he'd return safely, and that he'd love him no matter how many years go by.

"Feliciano!"

A hand grabbed Italy's shoulder from behind, and the frozen carnation slipped from his fingers as easily as running water. His breath hitched in his throat, his mind too paralyzed with fear to look back immediately. The man tried again, his voice altered by the noise of the wind. "Feli!"

"Germany?" He stood there, dazed. "You're not wearing a jacket."

"I know that." The blond swallowed nervously. "I was looking for you."

Italy puffed out a small cloud of mist, surprised. "T-thank you, Germany."

He waited for the man to scold him for running out in this weather, but Germany looked uncomfortable, his cheeks red from either the breeze or embarrassment. "I wanted to ask you if…"

"Yes?"

Dammit, this was harder than the manuals said it would be. "Do you want to…"

"…Ludwig, are you okay?"

"I'm fine!" He'd referred to him by his human name! The blond took Italy's hands, the sudden motion startling him. This time, however, he looked more confident, the awkwardness slowly melting away. "W-would you like to go to the—"

That was when his voice faded away, and Italy only saw Germany's lips moving soundlessly. At first he thought he was daydreaming, but when the man remained mute for another minute, Italy's heartbeat quickened. "Ve…I'm sorry, Ludwig, I didn't catch that—"

Germany tried again, but it was as though his voice had been erased. Instead, all Italy could hear was someone that seemed to be speaking from miles away, a voice that sounded like his voice…

"Ludwig, do you remember what happened when you were Holy Roman Empire?"

"Why do you ask?"

"That coat you're wearing, the one you took from the studio, reminds me of him. Or you. I'm not sure anymore. Just wondering."

"Not much. I remember you."

Alarmed, Italy snatched back his hands hastily, and in that instant, the sounds flooded to life and he could hear Germany's agitated voice repeating his name. "—Feliciano! Feli!"

Italy blinked, shaking away his thoughts. "I-I'm sorry. Did you—did you hear that?"

Germany stared at him with a strange expression. "Hear what?"

Was he going insane? "I guess I was imagining it, ve. What did you want to say?"

The blush returned instantly. "I asked if you wanted to go to the Christmas market with—" He coughed, flustered. "—w-with me tomorrow."

The Italian remained silent for quite a while, and Germany was afraid that he'd ruined the whole thing until Italy broke out in laughter, wiping tears from his eyes. "I wasn't expecting Ludwig to ask me that. I-I mean, I'm happy that you did, but…"

…but I'm still waiting for him…

Italy glanced at his carnation, covered with new snow and nearly concealed: a droplet of blood in a sea of white. Holy Roman Empire no longer existed, it didn't matter how many years he waited, the little boy in the cape would never return.

Finally, Italy raised his head and beamed at Germany, a real, meaningful smile. "I'd be glad to."

November 30, 1960, Munich, West Germany, Germany's house, 7:45 P.M…

"What's that in your pocket, Onkel?"

"I don't have anything in my pocket."

"Yeah, you do," Felicita pointed at Gilbert's back pocket. "You've got something in your butt pocket."

He reached behind and stared at the crumpled wad of American dollars, realization dawning on him. "Oh, yeah. I borrowed these from West."

"You mean you took it without asking."

"Same thing."

"Vati's going to kill you."

"Not if he doesn't find out," Gilbert replied, opening the pantry cabinets and digging for food. "What's this?"

"Italy's present for Germany, don't eat that. And what makes you think I'm not going to tell Vati?"

"You're referring to them by their country names? Aw, your Mutti will cry when he hears that."

"They're not my parents yet," Aloisa said stubbornly, leaning her head on her hand. "They wouldn't care."

"They've got plenty of other things to worry about right now. Hey…what if I bought us all plane tickets and leave Munich on our own? That way we wouldn't have to deal with this—"

"Evangeline's mom will pick us up. You're going to screw up the whole thing."

"I was awesomely improvising, Aloisa. They totally believed me. How about we spend the money in the Christmas market?"

"They don't take American dollars."

"Then can—"

"No, you can't keep it, either."

"You got to loosen up, seriously." Gilbert peered inside the microwave oven, raising an eyebrow. "Is this supposed to be a microwave?"

"Aren't you supposed to know?"

"I've lived a long time. I forget shit."

It was difficult to remember that even Gilbert used to be a nation (why he is still here now, Aloisa had yet to question), as annoying as he was. "How long?"

Gilbert stuck his coffee mug inside, shrugging to himself; it probably worked the same way as a regular microwave. "How long what? How long until my coffee's done?"

"No, you idiot. How old are you?"

"Human years? Maybe a little over twenty…maybe I stopped aging. That's pretty awesome—"

"Country years."

"Can't remember," he answered bluntly.

"Are you kidding me?"

"No. Okay, Teutonic Knights were in the thirteenth century, so that means…forget it, you can look it up on your own." Gilbert ripped open Italy's gift and started munching on the cookies, ignoring Aloisa's protests. "Why, did my awesomeness convert you—"

"Of course not," she said, snatching the box away. "Then how old is Vati?"

"I don't know, twenty?"

"But you said you're twenty."

"I said 'over twenty'," he stressed, irritated.

"Then how does nation aging work?"

"Depends on their economy. The bigger it is, the more mature they become."

"…so, did yours, like, suck or something?"

"Hell no—oh, shit, what was that?"

A splitting crack erupted from inside the microwave oven, followed by a hissing noise like air escaping a balloon. They heard Felicita calling from the living room, asking what was wrong.

"Nothing!" Aloisa gestured at the oven, startled. "Smoke's coming out, Onkel Gilbert…"

That was when Gilbert decided that it would be a nice time to open the oven door for all to gape at the dripping mess of coffee and fire. "Oh, shit," he repeated.

Aloisa leaped from her seat, suppressing a hysterical screech. "Where's the fire extinguisher?"

Gilbert opened the nearest kitchen compartment and tossed Aloisa a rusty canister. "Here it is!"

She ogled at it in incredulity. "This is an air horn."

"It's a retro fire extinguisher, just spray it!" Well, now that she mentioned it, it did look sort of like an air horn…

"How do I use it?"

"Just press that—dammit, not at me—"

"Are you two okay—" Felicita poked her head out of the corner, her smile frozen as she watched the two fight each other for the fire extinguisher while the oven fire grew bigger behind them. "The kitchen—"

That was also when the front door opened, the snow and wind blowing Italy and Germany indoors. Gilbert currently had the canister held high above his head, and Aloisa was grappling his face to grab it.

Germany didn't know whether to scream or to slap himself to check if he was delirious. "Bruder…?"

Gilbert blinked, realizing that Germany had been standing there for quite some time. He and Aloisa stared at them for a few seconds before Gilbert, still stuck in that position, squeezed the lever of the fire extinguisher and the flames slowly died down.

"…welcome home, West."

November 30, 1960, Christmas market, Strasbourg, France, 3:26 P.M…

"You should see the marketplace at night, Evan…it's quite beautiful."

Evangeline nodded, letting her heels glide over the iced sidewalk. "I know. I've been to Christmas markets before."

So she was willing to talk now, France guessed. "So you have, huh?" He thought about this, pointing out curiosities displayed in various stalls. "Who did you come with? Your boyfriend, perhaps?"

That sparked a furious blush. "No. Came with my brother and parents. We went to a different one, though."

"About your father…is his eye color red?"

The girl paused, glancing at him suspiciously. "No," she said, after a long moment of hesitation. "Do your friends have red eyes?"

Maybe he'd been too abrupt with that question. "Yes, actually," he admitted. "His name is Gilbert, but I haven't seen him since the war."

Her expression relaxed visibly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

France chuckled. "But I'm sure he is fine wherever he is."

"You are so right," she muttered to herself.

"Pardon?"

"N-nothing!" Evangeline wondered if France was pelting her with questions on purpose. "Can I ask something, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"Of course, ma cherie."

"About that person you invited to the Christmas market…" She sensed that she'd hit a nerve when the corner of France's mouth twitched. "How would you like it if h—she, visited you?"

"That again, Evan? I haven't talked to her in years—"

"I'm just saying, maybe she's afraid to like you because she thought you left her. If you see her around, you should explain to her."

His smile curled into a bemused grin. "Wouldn't that make me look even worse, me proclaiming my love for her when she's already with Jones?"

Evangeline shrugged. "You've got nothing to lose."

"I have some dignity."

"Might as well use it up before you regret it."

And she strode away to a nearby teddy bear stall, letting France ponder that over.

November 30, present, park, 7:13 P.M…

"It's late, why aren't they home yet?"

"Maybe they got kidnapped—ow, I was kidding, Norge! They're probably still at the playground—"

"Ha ha. You're not coming in the house until you see the kids."

That was how Denmark ended up climbing to the roof, waiting and watching for three figures to show up while collecting weird stuff he found littered in corners. So far, he'd discovered: a dead rose, a basketball, a broken teacup, and plenty of tattered cookbooks (he had no idea how that last one got up to the roof in the first place).

In ten minutes or so, Denmark was snoring on the roof of England's house with an opened cookbook lying on his face.