Paris, France; 1 May 1844
Top hats and sun parasols poke out above the crowds of pedestrians cluttering the lively city sidewalks. Horses clop along the dirt roads with carriages bouncing behind them, kicking up little pebbles and dust clouds. Shop owners invitingly open the doors to their boutiques and flaunt fashionable clothing at passers-by. The warm morning sunlight filters in through the carriage window, glinting off Canada's spectacles and his wavy golden hair. He stares out at Paris with a broad grin plastered over his face.
In the seat beside him, England quietly observes his colony before turning his attention to the crisp pamphlet in his hands. The title page strikes out in fine, bold print: 'Exposition des produits de l'industrie française'. He remembers when it arrived by mail a few months back, along with a pair of tickets and a lengthy handwritten invite that smelled of flowery perfume and bore an elegant signature he knew by heart. While he was perfectly happy to ignore it, Her Majesty the Queen got wind of the letter and insisted that he cordially accept France's invitation. Begrudgingly, England wrote his RSVP and made sure to keep it as brief as possible. Heaven help him if he were to spend any time fretting over a reply to France.
In all likelihood, this upcoming event will be needlessly excessive; a one-sided version of the 'Field of the Cloth of Gold'. If past interactions with his eternal rival are any indication, it's entirely probable that England will be suffering a headache by noon, unless he can find a good cup of tea. At the very least, it appears that Canada is having a good time.
The coach makes a wide turn, bumping along the path to the exposition hall and something must have caught Canada's attention because he suddenly gasps with delight.
"England, sir, what is that?" he asks.
Pulled from his thoughts, England looks up from his pamphlet to see Canada pointing at something outside the window. Craning his neck, England leans in close to see what all the fuss is about.
Reaching up to the sky, a massive white arch stands in the middle of the busy intersection. The monument is decorated with rich statues that depict triumphant youths and winged heroes. Crowned with ornate cornices, in typical Roman style, it proudly celebrates many French victories within recent memory.
"I believe that's the Arc de Triomphe," England answers. "This is the first time I've seen it complete."
Joy shimmers in Canada's violet blue eyes. "It's amazing," he breathes. The corners of England's lips tug into a slight frown. He disagrees with the sentiment, but far be it from a gentleman to spoil a pleasant atmosphere.
He gives a half-hearted "Hm," as an affirmation and shifts back into his seat. He is just about to return to the papers in his lap when his ward speaks up again.
"Um," Canada begins quietly. He turns to England with his lips curled into a shy smile. "I wanted to thank you for inviting me to this event."
For a moment, England is unsure of what to say. "France is the one who provided the tickets," he eventually mentions.
"Maybe," Canada admits, "but I'm still happy you thought to bring me along." His smile is earnest and radiant.
England awkwardly thumbs the pamphlet in his hands. He is more accustomed to being shouted at by his brothers or gossiped about by the rest of the world. Being thanked is a rather strange sensation. "Oh! And the clothes as well!" Canada continues, looking down at his sharp outfit. "Thank you for letting me wear them. I don't have anything this nice back at home."
A black, flared frockcoat of remarkable quality overlays Canada's waistcoat and fitted trousers. England had not planned on buying his ward any new clothing, since Canada often preferred sewing his own and good on him for that. Perfectly normal for a colony of his age to want to do certain things himself; he had grown much in the past half-century. Just this morning, England went to adjust the young man's necktie and found that, for the first time, he needed to look upwards. It served as a painful reminder that with maturity comes less reliance on one's elders. So, when Canada idled in front of a London tailor shop window last week, gazing longingly at the Sunday suits on display, it only felt right to usher him inside and demand the tailor's best work.
England has no intention of revealing that the outfit was a bit expensive, costing just over £6.
"Your clothes are perfectly fine, Canada," England says. "I only thought... Well, this is a rather distinguished event and you mentioned you didn't have any formal attire." He pauses to clear his throat. "Anyways, I'm not 'letting you wear them'. The clothes are yours."
"Really?" Canada exclaims. "You mean, I can keep them?"
"Of course, you can."
Canada's smile broadens. "Thank you!"
A touch of heat rises beneath England's cheeks. Clearing his throat again, he shies away to focus on the view outside his carriage window.
"You're welcome," he murmurs.
The coach gently turns onto the grand Champs-Élysées. Rows of trees, green with budding spring foliage, line the broad, busy avenue. From Canada's adolescent perspective, England can perhaps understand how this city may seem enchanting. Maybe, for England, it has become too familiar over the centuries to elicit any awe, even despite its great changes.
He cannot recall the youthful wonder and curiosity he once had. History came too quickly. With soldiers and spears, it sewed itself into his bones and taught him to seal away everything hopeful and childlike. And as time passed, Paris became ordinary, just another garden-variety of the many cities across the globe.
In that way, perhaps adulthood for nations is not so different from that of humans. Hopefully, Canada will live his life remaining blissfully safe from the merciless nature of European politics. If so, then maybe he can hold on to that remarkable innocence of his.
Quietly, England ponders these things while the carriage steadily escorts the pair to their prestigious destination.