It was sort of a magical thing, the balloon slowly rising into the skies and floating through the air towards and over the water. As France checked some of the instruments, America watched the crowd and eventually the shore shrink into the distance.

There was already a problem.

America leaned over the edge of the basket the tiniest bit to see the balloon's reflection on the waves. The waves that should have been a little smaller by now.

"Is it just me, or are we flying kind of low?" America started, watching the water loom close.

"It's not just you." France glanced out at the Channel before investigating the equipment again. "The balloon's working fine, though. We're just a bit heavy." He checked the altitude. "Or more than a bit heavy." He watched the water for a brief moment before realising how silent the other side of the basket had become.

America was slumped in the proverbial corner, slowly approaching the foetal position.

"America?" France started slowly.

America didn't turn to face him, and his voice was small. "I don't eat that much, do I?"

France sighed. "No, I'm sure that has nothing to do with it. There are a lot of things here dragging us down, so we should be able to drop enough pretty easily..."

America stopped shrinking and looked about his part of the basket. One of the ballast weights—which, all together, summed about 30 pounds—caught his eye. Picking it up, he turned and started, "Is it okay to drop th—" He cut off and yelped, nearly jumping out the side of the balloon.

"Hm?" France looked over his shoulder, taking his gaze off the clothes—all of his clothes—floating down towards the Channel.

America stammered for a second before shaking his head near-rabidly. "G—Gah! Warn a guy, will you?"

"Oh, sorry." France turned around—sending America's gaze sliding awkwardly back to the weight in his hands—and leant on his side of the basket. "What was it you were asking?"

"Uh..." America had to take a moment to dismiss his thoughts—that the clothes were far from the heaviest things to throw overboard, and that France had some pretty mad stripping skills—before he could remember what he was asking. "Can we drop these weight things?"

France checked the instruments again to ensure the clothes hadn't been the deciding factor in the balloon's altitude. "Well, those are for stability, but we could probably afford to lose them."

America nodded and proceeded to throw his weight overboard, then going around the balloon and tossing the others. France watched the last one hit the water. It didn't feel like the balloon was rising any more, but he checked the altitude to be sure.

"That wasn't enough," he said, looking to see what else could be dropped. His gaze rested on America a little too long for the nation's comfort.

"I am not taking any clothes off until it's absolutely necessary."

France sighed, looking away. "You're no fun, America."

"I'm plenty of fun! I just don't want to be freezing and naked when we show up on the other side, that's all."

"All right, all right." France took a minute longer before deciding what he felt was the next least necessary. "Let's drop the wings."

"What?" Apparently it was just not America's day. "But-but-but they make the balloon look so much cooler! Like an eagle or something! So we can glide to the other shore victoriously instead of bobbing over... boringly!"

With his hands already on one of the wings, France frowned. "We're either dropping these or your clothes."

America hesitated. It was long enough for France to quietly release the first of the wings.

"No!" Heartbreaking as this was to him, America couldn't do much more but stand there as the other three wings were dropped. He watched the last billowing stretch of silk disappear under the water like it was an old friend sinking to his death. Defeated, he looked out over the waves as they surely threw the wings about unmajestically under the water, so far away from where they should have been.

But not quite far enough away.

"We're still too low."

America pivoted to look back at France's face. "Are you kidding me?"

"Non." France sighed. "We're going to have to drop something else." He looked back at America, who in response clutched his coat to his torso.

America looked over at the equipment and started, "That stuff looks pretty heavy."

France moved himself between America and the instruments. "Yes, but it's also important for getting to the other side."

"How about that?" America pointed at an anchor.

"We need that to land!" Going on before America could target something else vital, France said, "I think we don't have to drop too much more weight, anyway. We should let go of the letters."

"No way!" America took the bag of envelopes in his arms. "We're trying to make history here! Why wouldn't we want to be responsible for the first batch of letters delivered this way, too?"

"Because I'd rather actually get across than drown clinging to some letters." France crossed his arms. "It's the next least necessary thing—unless you want to get rid of some clothes."

America looked down into the bag of letters, and then about the basket to make sure what France was saying was true. It sure seemed like it. But... But they would make history with these.

France, meanwhile, was watching the Channel draw closer. "America!" he shouted. "Throw something over before we hit the water!"

America looked back into the bag, his lip quavering, before finally walking with it to the edge of the basket. He took out a handful of envelopes and, after hesitating, dropped them over. "Thank you for your sacrifice!" he started, though it was unclear whether we was referring to the letters or those who were expecting to receive them. "We will remember you!" He threw another handful over and reached in for more.

"—Holy crap! There's one for Benjamin Franklin in here!"

"America," France responded.

"Okay, okay." America finally gathered up the rest of the letters in the bag and, closing his eyes, tossed it over. He couldn't even watch these sink. "Please tell me their sacrifice was worthwhile!"

France checked the water but couldn't tell. He went to the altitude display. "We rose a little bit."

America pumped his fist in the air.

"But not enough."

America facepalmed.

France sifted through the equipment America had paid for but wasn't sure what he could afford to lose. America looked about as well—but he did find something.

"Is this brandy?"

France, feeling cold for reasons other than his lack of cover, turned around to see America holding the only contents of the bag of "personal items" he had brought aboard. "Yes."

America gave France a look. "That's way less necessary than the letters! And probably heavier!"

"No, that's completely necessary!" France gasped, grabbing the neck of the bottle. "We need that to celebrate after we land!"

America tugged to get the bottle back out of France's grasp. "We're throwing this over."

"No!"

America was rather surprised when he was tackled. In this surprise, France managed to get his hands back on the bottle, but it wasn't long until America overpowered him and took it back.

"No!" France wailed, clinging to America's leg as the latter fought his way back to the edge of the basket. "Not the wine! Anything but the wine!"

America, finally at the edge, held the bottle over the water but paused. "Okay, fine."

France looked up, sniffling but with his tear-dimmed eyes hopeful.

America looked down at him. "Either we drop this, or your clothes." He stopped. "Oh, wait." He sent the brandy bottle flying down to the Channel, and France scrambled to his feet only to see it make a splash and disappear. Whimpering, he slid back down.

Seeing the navigator wasn't all that ready to check the altitude again, America walked over and checked the display himself. Not that he had any idea what it was supposed to be.

"Hey, France? How high are we supposed to be?"

France, slowly recovering from his big shock, slowly came over and looked himself. He didn't cheer up a bit. "Higher than this."

America moaned, just resisting the urge to thump his head against the equipment. "Is there anything left?"

"The bag I put the brandy in," France replied, tossing said bag over without much hope. It didn't change anything.

America peeked behind some of the instruments but didn't see anything promising. "So, is all that's left the stuff we need to get over there?"

"Just about."

America started to turn to see what else France could have been talking about, but he hit his head.

"Ow—hey!" By the time he realised France was ripping his coat off him, it was too late to stop him. America finally squirmed his way out of the space and looked France in the eye. France, with one hand on the steering equipment and the other throwing the coat over, looked right back.

After a minute, America finally conceded, "Fine." He took off his shirt, footwear, and trousers, and threw them over. France was still looking at him.

"I'm still not taking off my underwear, sorry."

"But the only thing left is the instruments!" France, just to be sure, checked the altitude. "And we're still way too low."

America crossed his arms. "I guess it's time to toss the instruments, then."