A/N:

Many thanks to 50colonies on tumblr, who helped me flesh out many of the ideas and scenes of this story, and contributed a few lines! A few notes before you begin reading:

1. I've taken plenty of historical liberties here. It's Hetalia, what can I say? That being said, a lot of this history is 100% true, and if you've never read about the diplomatic drama of America's first treaty with a neutral country, it's worth a google. The US National Archives has a good page on it.

2. In the story, there are some bits of untranslated French and Swedish. None of it is probably very good, and I apologize to any readers out there who are more linguistically gifted than I. I rely entirely on google translate and my own very, very old language classes. The intended translation will be noted at the end of the chapter.

"But I don't understand," Alfred's footsteps thundered down the steep, dark stairwell. He fumbled to keep the stack of luggage from toppling out of his arms and onto the heads of the valets below him. They carried similar stacks of bags and parcels, and continued around through the foyer and out the front door, but the nation paused in the entryway. He held heavy luggage aside in one palm and looked up at a bundled Thomas Jefferson. "Why do I have to go?"

"This is a treaty, our—your—first international trade treaty," Thomas was harried and looked tired. It was not yet sunrise, and he hadn't fully dressed, but there were dots of sweat peppering his forehead despite the frigid January air. He plucked a piece of luggage from Alfred's arms and handed it to a valet. "With the others," he instructed.

"No it's not," Alfred said, "We've already signed treaties with France and Holland—"

"Dutch Republic," Thomas corrected, knee-jerk.

"—and I wasn't there for those," Alfred whined. "I thought you'd be the one to go, you love Paris."

"And I should like nothing more than to return, Master Jones, but Congress has denied the appointment. But this is… this is different. It has to be you."

"No," Alred insisted, "I should be here, with the people. There are soldiers still in hospital," his teenaged voice cracked theatrically, but he powered through, "there are women and children still trying to rebuild houses, farms—I can help them, I'm no good at diplomacy, you know that."

Unfortunately, Thomas did. He drew in a long breath and sighed it out. He rubbed a hand over his face before taking the remaining pieces of luggage from Alfred's arms and giving them to a huffing valet who'd just returned from the carriage. "The last of them," he said. The valet gave a short sigh, took them, and left.

Alone in the dusky foyer of Monticello, Jefferson crouched slightly, eye to eye with his young nation. He grasped the boy's shoulders, unnerved as he always was at how they stood stiff and heavy as iron rods inside such a tiny body.

"They're talking about conceding independence," he said quietly. At this, Alfred froze, eyes big and surprised. He blinked.

"Inde... England is?"

"Yes. No official terms yet, but… they've accepted the name."

"What?"

"The United States. Last fall, Britain drafted a preliminary agreement, and they've called us the United States."

Alfred was frozen on the spot, unable to say or think anything. He felt lighter, taller, heavier, bigger, and somehow, scared. "But I thought…wait... last fall? No one told me," he accused.

"I didn't want to worry you. After Shelbourne's idiotic games, you were so despondant… it's still nowhere near official, and very precarious. France is trying to negotiate separate terms, and Spain and England are entangled in the Indies and Gibraltar. It's a delicate situation, and right now, not entirely in our hands. But it will happen. The British will concede."

"If you're so sure, then why are you making me go?" Alfred asked again, loudly.

"This isn't about England, Alfred," Thomas cut him off. He wished the boy was more internationally minded, wished he knew more about the world and how it worked—he was still so young. "This is about what happens after. Yes, we've signed treaties with France, with the Dutch. They are our wartime allies. They've been sending us soldiers, money, armaments. But once this war is over, they cannot be the only allies we have. We need neutral nations to recognize our independence. Nations that have nothing to do with England, or France, or this war."

Alfred binked and looked down at his shoes. It made sense, but… he cast a glance out the open front door, where he could see the first blush of morning light warming the cool Virginia horizon. The coachmen and valets were readying the horses and tying all of his luggage—over half of it filled with diplomatic gifts sent on behalf of Congress and Jefferson himself—to the carriage. The only thing it was missing for its journey to the Chesapeake was him.

"Benjamin Franklin has been in talks with an envoy from Sweden," Thomas interrupted his thoughts. "A treaty of Amity and Commerce is imminent. It's only right that you be there."

"Sweden?" Alfred repeated. He knew nothing about Sweden. Sure, he'd met a few Swedish soldiers over the last few years. They'd come pouring in to support his troops under the banner of France; but those were foreign legionnaires. But Sweden, capital 'S' Sweden? He'd never met the man. Doubt flooded him. Wait, Sweden was a man, right? He scoured his brain for whatever tidbits about other nations he might've picked up from Francis, from Gilbert. No one had ever really talked about Sweden.

"I… I know that, uh, that England," the way that Thomas said it let Alfred know he was talking about Arthur, "never taught you about these things, but international treaties are overseen by nations just as much as their ambassadors. If we are to be an independent nation, you need to be there. You need to show Sweden, to show the world, that you are ready to take your place among them when at last Britain has no excuses left." Thomas waited for Alfred to meet his eyes. "You will be independent, and you will need independent connections among nations."

The sun was rising over Virginia. Light poured into the house in timid sheets that grew by the second. Alfred swallowed and tried to stand a little taller. "Alright," he said.

"Good," Jefferson gave his shoulder a pat and straightened. "We must pray for the fastest winds the world can spare," he urged the young teenager out the front door. "Franklin and Cruetz could well be negotiating terms as we speak."

By divine providence or else phantasmic good luck, their voyage to France made exceptional time. Alfred knew that under six weeks' to cross the entire ocean was virtually unheard of this time of year, and that he should be falling on his knees to thank the almighty, but inwardly he was panicking. In his weeks at sea, he could still barely hold a formal Swedish greeting in his head without looking down for his dictionary.

But so it was, after a hasty departure onto a passenger vessel from the Chesapeake on January the twenty-fifth, Alfred Jones arrived in Europe for the time in his life, at about one hour past noon on March the third in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and eighty-three.

Alfred stood alongside two Virginian diplomats—Joseph Jones and Arthur Lee—whom Jefferson and Washington had sent to accompany their nation on his first voyage across the sea. They were all dressed in plain commoners' clothes, as to not draw attention to themselves. Only a select few individuals knew that they would be here in La Havre, and they were meant to guard such knowledge with their lives.

While the two men directed the shiphands helping to sort their cargo, Alfred craned his neck and gripped his hands tightly against one another, so excited he could burst. His ears itched at the sounds of French all around him. Spanish, too, and German, or maybe Dutch? The docks were abuzz, and Alfred had to focus all of his energy in not bounding up to the ports to investigate what lay beyond. He could smell fish, and spices, and vomit, and rum, and the salty European sea that somehow looked different than back home.

"That looks like all of it," said Joseph as the shiphands sorted out the last of their luggage from that of the other passengers. He tipped them a livre each and then arched his back with a wince, hearing the bones pop and crackle. "So," said he, "This 'friend' of yours, what does he look like?" He asked Alfred.

"Oh, you'll know him when you see him," Alfred said.

They did not have to wait long. Through the midday traffic of fishmongers carts and swarms of passengers, two handsome black carriages pulled up to the dock. Out of the first emerged a young, blond, wigless man who was beaming like a lunatic. He waved a plumed hat to get their attention.

"Monsieur Jones!" Alfred could not help but smile back just as brightly; it'd been well over a year since he'd seen Francis in the flesh, and never in his life had he seen the older nation so happy. "Mon cœur bondit de joie de vous revoir!"

Francis jogged toward the American contingent, lily-white feather bobbling over his hat as he did.

"I thought the idea was to look inconspicuous," Joseph said in an aside to his fellow Virginian. Arthur Lee, who'd spent much of the Revolution abroad in England and France as a diplomat as well as a spy, snorted.

"Have you ever met a frenchman?"

Alfred didn't hear them and wouldn't have cared if he did. "En moins de six semaines, Francis, qu'en pensez-vous?"

Francis reached them in short order and had barely taken the time to kiss Alfred on either cheek before taking the boy into a hug and lifting him fully off the ground.

"Magnifique, Amerique, c'est magnifique! Bienvenue chez moi." The two nations laughed, and eventually Francis set the boy back down, pausing to examine him with the pride of family. Alfred watched the taller nation in some amusement, fascinated and thrilled to see him in his homeland. Francis kept his hands on Alfred's shoulders.

"To have you here in France, mon ami, is such a great pleasure I have long awaited." Still grinning, he touched Alfred's cheek. "On the very cusp of independence, les mots ne peuvent décrire à quel point je suis fier!" Alfred laughed happily, but said nothing.

Francis turned his smile toward Alfred's friends. "Monsieur Lee, and Monsieur Jones, oui?" He said.

"Oui," Lee answered for them both, reaching out to shake Francis' hand. Francis turned to Joseph and gave his hand a shake as well.

"And I am Francis Bonnefoy. I assume Master Jones has explained who I am." He glanced at Alfred, and then back up at the Virginians. "Two Joneses, this could become confusing," He winked. Joseph smiled.

"The story at sea was that I'm his father," he chuckled. "But please, Joseph will have to do for now."

"You are very kind, Monsieur Joseph. Are these your things?"

"Yes, this should be all."

"Maurice, Henri," Francis waved over the coachmen. While they got to work packaging the parcels and suitcases to the carriages, Francis smiled to his friends.

"The road to Paris is long and, I'm afraid, rather bumpy," he warned. "Viens. Monsieurs Franklin and Cruetz will be anxious to know you've arrived."

At that moment, Alfred's stomach began to rumble. Francis heard it and laughed as he turned toward the carriages.

"Yes, mon ami, I have brought food for you as well." Alfred was the one to blush, but it was Joseph who breathed,

"Oh, thank God."

Alfred was glued to the carriage window the entire ride to Paris. Everything was so new and eerily unfamiliar. The hills and fields were simultaneously like America and not at all. Every crop, every hay bale, every thatched roof and unidentified ruin were like gateways to a world he'd only heard about from Arthur's stories.

Francis watched the boy's rapt fascination with a small smile. They'd begun their journey with fresh bread, fine cheese, and every intent to practice Alfred's Swedish, but soon Alfred was asking questions about everything he saw out the window, and Francis hadn't had the heart to deny him.

"That looks old," Alfred commented at a derelict stone structure as they passed. "What is it?"

Francis had to look. He hadn't considered the ruin in centuries. "Rome put it there, I think," he offered, not fully remembering. "He was a cruel and controlling man."

Alfred was suddenly silent, and watched the pile of rocks pass with new fixation.

"So," Francis said, not liking how old he suddenly felt, "How are you feeling? About the treaty, that is."

Alfred glanced back at him, put on the spot. He looked back out the window.

"It feels strange," he said plainly. "Not… bad. But… Arthur still hasn't… you know," he said.

"He will," Francis promised. "Even Angelterre cannot stop you now."

Alfred blushed at the idea. Even now, right at the edge of getting everything he'd ever wanted, it felt surreal and rebellious in a way that transgressed everything England had ever wanted from him.

"Spain acknowledged your independence, you know—while you were at sea."

"I heard," Alfred said, feeling a thrill. Spain and his colonies had been cooperating with him for years, now, but Alfred knew Antonio didn't trust him. The fact that even Spain was acknowledging his independence was a golden harbinger. And yet… unbidden, a memory of Arthur surfaced in his mind, frowning and angry. England doesn't even know I'm here. Alfred watched Northern France roll by in waves of green and spots of brown, an unfamiliar continent.

"Having it so unofficial, though. Everything is so secret." A thought struck him, and Alfred turned to look at Francis, blue eyes wide in trepidation. "Sweden knows I'm coming, right?"

Francis chuckled. "Oui. He's been in Paris for a few weeks, and is looking forward to meeting you."

"Oh." The idea that someone from Europe whom he didn't already know wanted to meet him was a novel, welcome sensation. Alfred fidgeted in his seat, forgetting the window for the first time that afternoon. "What is he like?" he asked. "Sweden?"

"Hmm," Francis looked pensively at the upholstery. "He is difficult to describe. Tall, cold, slow to speak but decisive in everything he does. Unreadable at the best of times, absolutely terrifying at their worst." Francis glanced back at Alfred. "He laid siege to Paris, you know, many years ago. A formidable man and an uncompromising country. Not someone you'd be wise to cross." Alfred wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. It must have showed on his face.

"You mustn't worry, though. He's taken a keen interest in southern affairs of late. His kings study in my universities, his courts seek out my scholars and philosophers. And he's always been interested in the New World. I think you two could get along."

Could. The word stuck in Alfred's mind like a burr in between stocking and boot. There were so many ways for this meeting to go wrong. Could.

"What's his name?" Alfred asked. "I mean, his human name."

"Berwald Oxenstierna," Francis said, and Alfred immediately began wondering if he'd be expected to pronounce the surname right on the first try. "But when you first meet him, you ought to call him Svierge."

Alfred was ecstatic to see any part of France, and if he'd left only having seen Le Havre and the patchwork of fields between the port city and Paris, he could have returned home happy. But then, they arrived in Paris.

The city was unlike anything Alfred had ever seen. The biggest city Alfred had ever visited was New York City, and for years, it'd been the center of his entire imagination of what a city was. But this… this was so much bigger, and older, and louder, and… Alfred couldn't help it. He leaned toward the carriage door.

"Amerique, are you even listening to me?" Francis asked, sounding annoyed. "There is going to be a specific order to today, you need to understand what you're expected to-"

Alfred did not respond. He unlatched the window and leaned fully outside, toes straining to keep him tethered to the carriage floor.

"What are you thinking, you foolish boy?" Francis exclaimed, reaching over to grab Alfred's coattails, but he could not have budged the teen if he'd tried.

"This is amazing!" Alfred exclaimed, some of his volume stolen by the wind. "Everything is made of stone! The buildings here are so tall," he ducked back inside the carriage, and the look on his face when he turned cooled the elder man's anger. "Francis, it's beautiful!" And then he was leaning out the window again, laughing as the carriage sped past confused pedestrians and colorful shop fronts.

"Just do not let anything fly into your face, mon cher," Francis warned, trying not to feel flattered. "We are bound directly for Monsieur Creutz' residence. Do you really want to meet them with shit and mud blown in your hair?"

Painted such a picture, Alfred had the sense to duck back into the carriage, but he continued to look longingly out the window.

"Can we come back out here? I want you to show me around." Alfred was perched at the edge of his seat, eyes and nose illuminated by the dusky orange light shining in between the buildings as they passed.

"Of course, mon ami," Francis promised. "But first you must listen to frère Francisso you do not embarrass yourself at dinner. Sverige will expect to meet a fellow Nation, not a colonial bumpkin. Are you listening?"

Alfred frowned at the 'bumpkin' comment, but he fidgeted until he was in what he thought of as a dignified, Nation-like posture. "Of course," he mumbled.

"Good," Francis said. "Now, this is how things are going to happen when we arrive."

Francis' instructions were entirely unhelpful. Alfred hadn't fully digested them when they were in the carriage, and by the time he stepped outside, they flew from his mind straight and into oblivion. There had been so many details, so many steps, so many formalities and niceties that he may or may not be expected to adhere to depending on who said what and when. There were titles and names to remember, and ways to bow politely but not too politely, rules about whom he was allowed to shake hands with and with whom he wasn't. Worst of all, he would have to navigate this diplomatic melee while the ever-present expectation of dinner hung in the air.

Thankfully, before they ran into anyone who looked remotely Swedish, Alfred, Joseph, and Lee were shown to their respective guest rooms in Ambassador Creutz's generous townhome.

Alfred winced into the mirror as he combed furiously at his hair. Weeks at sea and hours in a coach had done nothing for his looks or his smell. He'd done what he could about the smell, and was in fresh breeches, socks, and shirtsleeves, but the looks remained in jeopardy thanks to the ratty blond mess atop his head. Not for the first time, he wondered why long hair was so fashionable when it was such an enormous bother.

There was a knock at his door, and a visitor let himself into the room. Alfred saw his reflection in the mirror, and his wince transformed into a smile.

"Ben!" He turned to greet him, hair a mess, head tilted as he wrestled with the comb. Benjamin Franklin laughed.

"Master Jones, in the Continent at last," the Pennsylvanian smiled, grey eyes peering tiredly over his bifocals. "How did you find the voyage?"

"Long," Alfred admitted, wincing again as the comb caught. He turned back to the mirror and doubled down his efforts.

"Indeed, indeed," Ben looked around, taking stock of the unpacked luggage. "The voyage is long and by consequence the evening is short. Where have you put your evening wear? I'll set out a jacket for you."

Alfred looked back at him, hands still occupied. He hated making other people do things for him, especially people as old as Franklin. "You don't have to, Ben—I can get it, really."

"You seem preoccupied with other matters of state," Franklin joked, meeting Alfred's eyes in the mirror mid-wince. "Time is of the essence. Dinner will be served in an hour or less, and I'd like to accompany you down and introduce you to our Swedish friends beforehand."

New nervousness gnawed at Alfred's stomach. "So soon?" he heard himself say, sounding more nervous than he'd planned. Ben saw it and gave him an encouraging smile.

"Don't fret, America. You'll like the Swedes—they're good, industrious Protestant folk." Ben looked about at the luggage in front of him, too economical to wait for a valet. "Now, evening wear?"

"The top one, I think," Alfred said. He hadn't actually packed the suitcases himself; Thomas hadn't trusted his sense of fashion. "I'll let you pick, you know the Parisian styles better than I do."

"Very well," Franklin flipped open the suitcase and began rustling through fabric that sounded far more expensive than anything Alfred made a habit of wearing. "You favor blue, do you not?"

"Mmm," Alfred hummed noncommittally, combing faster.

Swedish Ambassador Gustaf Philip Creutz was waiting for him in the parlor downstairs. Francis, Lee, and Joseph had already gone in to meet him, but Alfred was still making feverish attempts to plait and tie his hair. His efforts were not aided in the least by Benjamin Franklin's comments about Jefferson's taste in fashion, but at long last, he decided that his hair was acceptable for polite society. No sooner did he turn in the room than did Franklin accost him with a printsman's speed and efficiency with a pale gold waistcoat, white silk cravat, and a handsome blue jacket. He tried not to fidget against the noisy rub of taffeta. Francis assured him such tight tailoring was in vogue in Paris, but Alfred longed for the looser, worn cotton outfits of home.

"Don't fret, master Jones," Franklin had felt the tension in Alfred's shoulders when he dusted the lint lingering on his lapels. "Ambassador Creutz's time in Paris is limited, and his king is anxious to have this treaty signed. We have the upper hand, and favorable terms." It was not Cruetz that Alfred was worried about, but he just gave Franklin a smile and a nod.

They descended the stairs to find that it was already dark out. Even with lamps the hallway was quite dim, but when the parlor doors opened up in front of him, it was awash in warm light. Joseph and Lee stood comfortably to one side, speaking with some of the Swedish attachés while Francis conversed with the Ambassador himself.

"Ah," smiled Cruetz when Alfred followed Franklin into the parlor. Francis stepped aside to allow the two to meet. Creutz reached out his hand and said in pleasantly accented English, "Mr. United States, it's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Alfred hoped that the room wasn't actually bright enough for anyone to see how he blushed. United States. No one had called him that before. He shook Mr. Creutz' hand in the exact and brief way he'd been told to. "A pleasure, Ambassador. Please, call me America. My diplomats, at least, find it's much quicker on the tongue." This amused Creutz.

"A man of economical speech. An admirable trait in any man," he glanced at Franklin, "or nation." the Swede smiled, crowsfeet plucking at the corners of his eyes. Alfred swallowed, trying to remember everything Lee had told him about Creutz on their long journey over the ocean.

"I understand you are well known for your own words, Ambassador," Alfred said. "I've heard many good things about Atis och Camilla. I look forward to reading it one day, but I admit, my Swedish is not yet up to the task." Creutz gave a surprised smile.

"You flatter me, Mr. America," he smiled, "I had not known news of my work had travelled so far."

"Men and women of Sweden have long been at home in my country—they speak highly of you. I'm glad we may be friends, now."

"I could not agree more, Mr. America," Creutz said, and glanced at the door, outside of which they could hear footsteps. The door latch clicked open.

"Ah," Creutz turned. "Lord Oxensteirna, please, join us." Alfred turned with the rest of the room, and then whatever else Ambassador Creutz said faded into the silence of Alfred's memory.

Pine trees. Pine trees, and damp earth and spiced wine. The smell snuck up on Alfred and reached inside him and pulled on something old, older than most everything he could remember. He'd been young then, too young to know English from French from Swedish. Just him, alone, in the forest and the marshes, except...

He blinked his eyes, and there was a man in front of him, towering above him, blonde and mean, peering down through oval wire-framed glasses with blue-green eyes as strange and cold as an iceberg. Alfred looked up at him, unafraid and curious, and realized quite suddenly that the room was silent. All eyes shifted awkwardly between him and the giant beside him.

"Herre Svierge," Alfred had missed Creutz' introduction entirely, but didn't need to be told who this was. He did not break eye contact. "Har… har vi träffats tidigare?"

The face above him lifted in the mildest degree of surprise. "Vi har," said Sweden, in a voice deeper and older than anyone Alfred had ever met in his life, older than England, than France. In accented English, Sweden continued, "A little over a century ago. I'm surprised you remember, you were very young." The truth was, Alfred didn't remember meeting him. He only remembered a face through the trees, and a tall monster of a man whose presence kept the wolves at bay. "It's good to see you again, United States."

"I'm Alfred Jones," he replied, extending his hand.

"Berwald Oxensteirna." They shook hands.

"Splendid," Creutz practically deflated with relief. "I believe dinner is ready; please, gentlemen, follow me."

Alfred knew dinner would be a fraught experience. Europeans were fussy to say the least when it came to table manners, and Alfred wanted desperately not to make a fool of himself. He eyed the prongs of every fork before selecting which to use, and double checked the placement of his glass each time he took a drink.

So wrapped up in the table settings and his own appetite, America seemed to have missed a key point in the conversation. Smalltalk in the parlor had been conducted almost entirely in English (out of courtesy to the American guests, Alfred was sure), but at some point, everyone had suddenly switched back to French, and he had no idea why. His brow furrowed and he leaned toward the middle of the table, where Franklin and Creutz were sitting across from one another. It sounded as if they were talking about the treaty again, specifically the fourth article, which Creutz was expressing may become a point of amendment after King Gustav had a chance to read it in its final form.

A quiet cough brought Alfred's attention back to his end of the table. He looked up and found Berwald watching him. The elder nation reached out to take another roll of bread, and used the opportunity to lead toward Alfred and say quietly in French,

"We all speak English quite well, but France is mediating the treaty, so when we speak of business, we speak of it in French. This is the custom with many treaties."

"Oh," Alfred whispered. He'd known the treaty itself was written French, but no one had mentioned the other bit. "Merci,"

"Mmm," was Berwald's only reply. He buttered his bread modestly and continued eating. Alfred hadn't exchanged more than a handful of words with the man since they'd met in the parlor. At first, he'd wondered if the northern nation wasn't unhappy with the treaty his king had arranged, but his kindness now made Alfred wonder.

Back up the table, the diplomats were embroiled in discussion over various international scandals and Britain's tumultuous government, conversation lubricated by wine and good food. Francis lounged in his chair, legs crossed and a glass of wine in his hand as he ate up the gossip in silence. No one seemed to be paying attention to Alfred, and he wondered if he should feel left out, but then again, they weren't paying attention to Berwald, either. The tall Swede across from him seemed blissfully unbothered, and cut into his roast duck with the ease of someone who knew when and how to enjoy moments of quiet.

Alfred's fingers twitched uncertainly near his silverware while he searched for something, anything, to break the silence.

"Such a custom must necessitate the acquisition of many fluencies," he said at length, and was grateful when Berwald's mouth twitched in a microscopic smile.

"It is a custom of convenience. Where common languages do not prevail, Europe has many learned men to translate."

"I'm sure you have plenty of learned men in Sweden to choose from. Mr. Lee was telling me about the Secretary of your Academy of Sciences, Herre Wargentin, the astronomer. Is it true you have an observatory in Stockholm?"

"Nearby there, yes," Berwald said. "It was built only decades ago, but I have studied the stars for a long time."

Alfred dared to hope he'd found a common interest. "I learned how to map by the stars," he said, leaving out the part where it was England who'd taught him how. "The maps of North America aren't quite accurate yet, so I like to make my own when I travel." Whether Berwald was impressed or utterly uninterested, Alfred could not have said. The man was unreadable.

"Perhaps you could establish your own observatory, someday," Berwald suggested. Once again, Alfred found himself unsure if this was meant to be an encouragement or an intimidation.

"I hope to," Alfred told him confidently. "After this war is finally over."

"Hmm," Berwald had been looking at his food the entire time they spoke, but now flicked a sharp look over at the ambassadors. After a moment, he turned back to his duck. "You may want to listen, then," he told Alfred.

They'd begun talking about Britain. Specifically, about how Britain's recognition of American independence was all but guaranteed, and was now left only to the details. Alfred himself did not fully comprehend some of what they were talking about, and realized much could have developed here in Paris while he was still at home, or at sea. Perhaps he should have felt irresponsible for not knowing his own affairs, but his mind became stuck on something Creutz had said.

"-jesty is ecstatic to be the first to establish relations with the United States. Whenever Britain decides to stop dragging his heels, the rest of the world will be at your door before the ink has time to dry."

The rest of the world.

Alfred wasn't sure if what he was feeling was excitement, anxiety, both, or something else entirely. He picked at his food as he listened. They'd probably be bringing out dessert soon.

"I am getting the feeling that I ought to learn a few more languages," he said quietly. Berwald took a sip of wine.

"I'd recommend Spanish or Italian, if you don't know either already," the Swede said. "Dutch, perhaps German. Your French is quite good."

"Thank you," Alfred was taken by surprise.

"Your Swedish could use some work." Alfred was embarrassed for a moment, but when Berwald looked up at him, there was a not quite-there glint in his eyes that made Alfred think he might be jesting. "But there's no need to worry over languages right now, United States. Let the translators do their jobs, it will give you the freedom to focus on yours."

"And…" Alfred realized it was foolish to reveal his own ignorance to a foreigner, but he was desperate for someone to tell him: "what would say that is, Lord Oxensteirna?"

"Principally, to keep yourself away from Storbritannien. He never taught you the ways of nations because he never wanted you to become one." Berwald looked up at met Alfred's gaze, and something in his eyes made the younger think he spoke from personal experience. "Now is the time for you to learn how the world works for people like you and I."

"Let me be the one to teach you," hung unspoken in the air, but they both understood.

They brought out dessert, and their conversation faded. The ambassadors continued to talk, and Alfred tried to listen, but his mind was spinning, wondering how much there was about the world that England had never trusted him with.

The following day, Cruetz and Franklin holed themselves away in an office with their respective attachés to iron out the finishing details of the treaty. The actual signing of the treaty was to take place as soon as possible. Creutz was being recalled to Stockholm, apparently, and could only remain in Paris for a few more weeks. Franklin, meanwhile, was eager to send the signed treaty back to Congress and wash his hands of the responsibility. Alfred hadn't been invited to the closed-door session, so he let himself sleep in, recouping the many sleepless nights aboard a frigid ship, but was awakened by a knock at his door and a familiar voice from the hallway.

"Bonjour, mon cher," said Francis, "I came by to see if you were still interested in a tour of frère Francis' beautiful city." Alfred's eyes shot open. He tossed off the blankets and practically fell to the floor.

"I'll be just a minute!" He shouted at the door, scrambling for his boots. He could hear Francis chuckling.

Paris was spectacular from a coach, but on foot, it was downright enchanting. Alfred had never been to a country outside of his own colonies. He'd been up to visit Matthew, sure, but Matt's home was similar to his, and boasted fewer big cities. But in Paris, the buildings themselves predated his earliest memories. Stories known and unknown paved every corner, arch, and windowpane, and Alfred wanted to see it all.

"It's beautiful," Alfred breathed, looking up at the giant rose window in the midmorning sun. He'd said "beautiful" perhaps as many as thirty times already, but the repetition didn't seem to bother Francis, who was eating up every compliment and wide-eyed look with pride.

"She is indeed." He side-eyed the smaller country. "Would you like to see it from the inside?" He asked, sounding smug. Alfred's eyes went wide.

"Can we?"

After Notre Dame, they walked along the Siene, passing monuments and bridges and shops and graveyards. Alfred asked about every single one, and soon, it was past lunch time. They lingered by the river, and Alfred asked about every flag on every passing ship and barge. Sensing a learning opportunity—and a chance to sit down after hours of walking, Francis indulged him and explained each ship, where it'd likely come from, and where it was likely headed.

"How do you know all that?" Alfred asked after a while. "You're not just making it all up to tease me, are you?"

Francis laughed. "No, mon ami, I would never. It comes with age. You'll be telling me about all the ships in Boston, one day, and whatever other ports you grow." He glanced down at the boy. "Speaking of growing, I know you're hungry. I've been listening to your stomach all morning."

Alfred looked sheepish. "I didn't want to have to go back to the ambassador's house," he said. "There's too much to see!"

"Whoever said we had to go back?" Francis stood. "Come. I know a place I think you and your ravenous appetite will love."

Alfred understood immediately that they were bound somewhere for food, but he had assumed it would be soup, or bread and meats from a local market or pub. Instead, Francis led him north of the Siene. They passed another church, slightly smaller than Notre Dame, which Francis called Saint-Eustache. Alfred watched the clouds wink and flash behind the maze of flying buttresses as they passed, wondering how anyone had gotten so much stone to look so delicate.

"We will come back by here," Francis assured him, urging him to catch up, "we may even eat here, if you like, but first you must pick out something to eat." Picking something to eat piqued Alfred's interest; usually, he was told what to eat. But when they arrived at their destination, the young nation was struck dumb by his options.

"Monsueir Stohrer was her majesty's chef, before he came here," Francis told Alfred, who was comically-wide eyed and open-mouthed in the presence of so many, many pastries. "He was not French by birth, but I am glad his pâtisserie did not pass away when he did. Paris has become quite fond of it, as have I." The older nation glanced again at his companion, unable to help from smiling at the younger's expression. "Continue, mon cher," he nudged. "You pick out two that you like, and I'll pick another two that I know are good."

"Ooh," Alfred breathed, looking around frantically. There were sweet pastries, and yeasty pastries, and pastries with fish, and egg, and poultry. The smells combined were a cacophony of honey and meat and chocolate and bread, and he wanted to eat them all. "This is harder than independence," he whispered. He'd said it to himself, but Francis heard him and laughed loud enough to turn heads.

Eventually, Alfred settled on a hearty slice of tart made of ham and quail eggs, and a towering fluffy croissant flavored with honey and almonds. Francis ordered some for himself, and a few treats for Alfred, and they carried their feast back down to Saint-Eustache and sat down under a tree.

They ate in silence until the loudest rumblings of Alfred's stomach had been quelled, and then devolved into comfortable conversation, mostly to do with the food. After Francis had given Alfred a lesson in culinary history, he leaned back against the trunk of the tree, content and full. Alfred licked sticky rum sauce from his fingers.

"So," Francis asked in the silence, "How did you find Monseuir Oxenstierna?" Alfred paused at the question. Looking at his still-sticky fingers, he went to wipe his hands on his breeches, before remembering his company. He wiped them on the grass instead.

"He seems… kind," he decided. "Hard to read, but kind, I think."

"That's good," Francis said. "You may be the first to describe him as such, but then again, you do not have the same history with him that others do."

"But I've met him before," Alfred said, sounding curious, "I know I have, but… I don't really remember it."

"Ah," Francis chuckled. "Yes, you scared poor Ambassador Cruetz half to death when you stood there and stared like deer in front of a lynx. I thought you'd just forgotten what I told you to say." he adjusted his position. "I'm surprised you remembered him at all; you were very young. Sweden knew about your existence even before I or Angelterre did."

This shocked Alfred. "Really?"

"Mmm," Francis closed his eyes, remembering the day. "We'd been on the continent for some time, as had Monsieurs Oxenstierna and Väinämöinen. They'd been fighting with the Dutch for some time when they came upon Arthur and I and explained how they'd seen an enfant sauvage wandering the forest—"

"I'm sorry," Alfred interrupted, "Mister what?"

"Väinämöinen?" Francis repeated, cracking open his eyes.

"Yes, that," Alfred said, unsure as to how the sounds rolled off the Frenchman's tongue so easily. Francis laughed.

"Tino Väinämöinen, he is like us, and is part of Monsieur Oxensteirna's household. His country, Finland, is part of the Swedish Empire—or at least, what's left of it." There was much for Alfred to take in.

"Part of Sweden's house?" he asked.

"Yes," Francis answered, and paused awkwardly. "Not… not unlike how Mattieu is part of Arthur's household."

Alfred frowned "Finland's a colony?"

"A territory, it's not quite the same. Things are done differently this side of the Atlantic," Francis said. "Sweden has no colonies; he might've, if Arthur hadn't whisked you away first. He settled in the Chesapeake for a while, that's probably why you remember him." The idea sent Alfred's head spinning, and he struggled to reconcile the quiet, considerate man at dinner with someone who'd once thought to lay claim to him and his home. Something in his expression must've given away his outrage, because Francis said,

"You have nothing to fear from him now, mon cher. The Lion of the North has been thoroughly declawed—him and his house. He could not establish a colony now if he wanted to."

"Oh," Alfred's anger faded as quickly as it had surfaced. "What happened?"

"A very long and ill-advised war with Russia," France said, expression wearier than normal.

"Who won?" Alfred asked. Francis laughed mirthlessly. The boy's conception of war was simple and idealistic.

"In which battle?" Francis volleyed back. "There is rarely a 'winner', not in the way you're thinking. Two decades of war. Sweden's power has diminished, and Russia…" Francis trailed off. "A word of advice, petit frère," Francis called him this so seldom now, Alfred leaned forward to attend to whatever he said next, "never get mixed up in Russian affairs if you can help it." Alfred knew next to nothing about Russia, had never met Russia, and had no intentions of going there any time soon. He blinked at Francis, not sure what to say.

"Alright," he offered. This seemed to appease the older nation, who sighed and continued,

"Sweden was a great power at the beginning of this century. Now, he is not. He is not seeking out an alliance with you to subjugate you, if that's what you're worried about. He does so as a friend, a peer."

"A much older peer," Alfred grumbled, mind supplying memories of Arthur ordering him around just because he could, because he was smaller and younger and weaker.

"You mustn't let your pride come between you and the opportunity you've been given, mon ami," Francis' voice was suddenly stern. "The opportunity to ally with older nations, friendly older nations is not a luxury afforded to most, especially not at your age." If Alfred wasn't mistaken, the Frenchman almost sounded jealous. "If Berwald wishes to help you and teach you, you should let him. You allow me to do so, do you not?"

Alfred looked down at the grass, which he realized he'd been picking at for a while. His still-sticky fingertips were staining green. That's different, he wanted to say. I've known you for forever. You're fighting for me. Berwald is a stranger. But he knew that was the point of this treaty.

"When do you think the treaty will be signed?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, or so I assume," Francis said. "They will not sign it without you, of course."

"Right," Alfred pretended like he'd known that. "Of course."

"And then," Francis drew in a breath and sighed it out again, "I will have to pack you up and send you on your way—though I desperately wish I could detain you—for your journey north."

Alfred's brain came to a halt, and he stopped picking at grass to look Francis dead in the eyes. "North?" he said, interrogative. Francis blinked at him.

"Yes," the elder replied, surprised by Alfred's tone. "To Sweden."

Alfred's jaw dropped. He blinked.

"What?"

"Oh, mon dieu, Angleterre really has taught you nothing, has he?"

"What?" Alfred asked again, watching Francis' face as the older man rose to his feet and brushed himself off with a long suffering sigh.

"Viens," he offered Alfred a hand. "My legs grow sore. I will explain while we walk."

Translations:

Mon cœur bondit de joie de vous revoir = My heart leaps with joy to see you again!

En moins de six semaines, Francis, qu'en pensez-vous = Under six weeks, Francis, what do you think?

les mots ne peuvent décrire à quel point je suis fier! = words cannot describe how proud I am!

Har… har vi träffats tidigare? = Have… have we met before?

Storbritannien = Swedish word for Great Britain / United Kingdom