wat am i really five months late haha sorry.

Seriously, I am. This story doesn't want to be written like I want to write it, it seems. However, I have a better schedule now set-up for myself, in which annoying yodel music plays if I don't insert a story by the set amount of time. Go technology.

Anon Reviewers:

Guest-You're a descendant of Lee? Oh, man, you awesome possum, you. :3 I wanna be, but I've no idea about my family tree. :'D

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Warnings: is that some angst i see there

Confederate first heard about the capture of the diplomats from a newsletter.

Though his top priority was getting his men safely back to Europe, he still couldn't help but ball the newspaper up in his fist as he faced the president.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. "This is, what, a few days after the fact?" He glared at Davis, who stared calmly back. "You knew right from the beginning about this. You're the president, for heavens' sakes, and I'm your goddamn country." He gritted his teeth. "I think I have the right to know such things about my own people."

Davis sighed, sitting back down at his desk. "Look, Confederate, I was meaning to tell you. I just lost track of things. It's been busy around here."

"Sure it has, it's been busy everywhere," Confederate snapped. "You just can't lose track of things that are this important, though!" He himself wasn't fully keeping up with everything. After all, so many battles had been fought in such a short amount of his time being alive, and he just wanted everything to be over with. He wanted to be recognized by his brother (was his northern half a brother, or just an enemy?) and start on building his nation to stand alongside the other large nations.

But this was certainly something that he couldn't just let go because of his reluctance to continue with the fighting. This was uncalled for, even more so since he didn't know until that moment.

Looking tiredly at the Confederacy, Davis shrugged. "I'm not quite sure what you wish for me to say, Confederate." He gestured towards the crumbled newspaper in the young country's hand. "The Union has captured two of our diplomats who were headed for England. You've read it in the paper."

"Of course I've read it in the paper," Confederate snapped, almost feeling guilty when he saw the president wince. Almost, but not quite. "Everyone's read it in the paper. How else would I have come to you with such complaints?" He straightened with a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're not telling me these things, President! And don't you dare say I can't handle it, because I can." His glare turned even colder. "I've already been killing men out on the battlefield, sir, men that I'd much rather live peacefully beside, and I'll be damned if you tell me that I'm unable to handle such important information!"

They stared at each other for a few seconds, Davis looking pained and Confederate looking infuriated.

The older man broke the silence. "Yes, well, you are quite correct. I...I do apologize for my conduct. I haven't been very trusting of you, I suppose." He offered a shaky smile. "Might we discuss this in a more civil manner, then, as I should have done from the beginning?"

Confederate was tempted to refuse such a thing, but then realized that he needed the information. Besides, he was willing to forgive this time. It was true that Davis had on quite the load, and Confederate felt slightly ashamed for acting the way he did. "Um, yes. We may." He sat down in the chair across from Davis, clearing at his throat. "Apology accepted, sir. And I, myself, apologize for barging in and-"

Before he could say anymore, the president waved him off. "No, you most certainly have nothing to be sorry for. After all, I did have it coming, did I not?" He smiled once more, and, this time, Confederate smiled back. "Right, where should I start...? I suppose you got the gist of the article, yes?"

Confederate nodded. "Yeah. I mean, all it says is our two diplomats were captured by the Union and Lincoln refuses to release them."

Davis hummed, nodding his head. "And England is demanding for their release." When Confederate's head shot up in surprise, the president swallowed nervously. "I don't believe the newspaper had anything about that, then?"

"I think I would have remembered," Confederate said, running his fingers through his hair. "But, wait, this is excellent news!" His shock and initial disappointment were thrown aside as he stood from his chair. "If England is demanding for their release, then surely he's on our side!"

"That's what our mindset is," Davis responded with a chuckle. "Not just on our side, though; he views us as an individual nation. If he believes we have the right to diplomats, he believes we are, in fact, the Confederate States of America."

Confederate's eyes gleamed with excitement. "And is he negotiating, or just demanding?"

"Threatening, honestly," Davis said, grinning widely then at Confederate's expression. "He's threatening to engage in war with the Union if our diplomats aren't released."

"And Lincoln still refuses?" Confederate asked. "I mean, England is this huge empire! I know we've won against him twice before, but that was when we were one, when both the north and the south worked together to ward him off, and we also had help from other countries. If England goes to war again, who's going to help the Union? Not us, obviously, since England is fighting on our behalf. I don't think France would, either, since they rely more heavily on our exports than they do of the north's. I can't think of any other countries who would be strong or brave enough to come to the aid of a small nation fighting two wars at once." He shook his head in amazement. "President Davis, if England goes to war, we've already won! Lincoln and the Union would just have to give up right here and now!"

Davis looked amused. "Patience, Confederate," he chided. "England has yet to carry out their threats. I do believe they will should Lincoln not obey their commands, but that isn't now. We must wait and see what will happen."

As it was, though, Confederate wasn't very fond of waiting. He wanted action; he had always wanted action. Sitting back and letting life carry on wasn't exactly his way of doing things. Staring into Davis' eyes, though, he realized it was the only way of doing things at the current moment. Acting might just make everything fall to pieces. "Right," he muttered with a sigh, sitting back in his chair. "Right. I'll...I'll wait. Promise. But only until England gives his final answer. Then, no matter what it is, I'll make a move.

"Just as I would expect you to," Davis responded. "And no doubt it'll be a brilliant move."

"That's 'cause you would order it." Confederate grinned fondly at the president. "I just carry out your plans, sir."

However, Davis shook his head. "No," he argued. "No, I deliver to you the message of the people, and you carry it out."

"Everyone carries it out, Mr. President." Confederate rolled his eyes, still looking cheerful. "Running a nation isn't a one-man job. And being a nation isn't, either. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for everyone; people, government, nature in general." He shrugged. "Being a nation who accomplishes every task on his own...I don't believe that's being a nation at all."

Davis' thoughtful smile assured Confederate that he wasn't alone in that belief.

"I'm not used to sea-travel," became the most spoken phrase in Confederate's vocabulary for nearly an two entire weeks.

Lincoln finally did release the diplomats (Confederate figured that the threat of England was far too much for the north to handle), and they were continuing on their mission to gain allies in their struggle for peace. Confederate, excited to meet with other nations, had agreed to come along, but he was now regretting that decision. His stomach kept turning, and everything he ate just came right back up again. He spent more time hanging over the edge of the boat then doing anything else, and the crew members were rightfully worried.

"President Davis told us to look after you at all costs," one of the younger men said, awkwardly giving Confederate's back a comforting pat. "He wouldn't be much pleased with us if you died, I don't think."

Confederate would have laughed if he wasn't trying to keep his face straight so as to not be sick once more. "Urgh, is he still trying to baby me?" he mumbled. "Good Lord, sir, I can't die just from being a tad ill."

The crewman was uncertain. "I've seen it before, though."

"Yes, I've seen it, too."

"I'm afraid you might suffer the same fate."

"I won't," Confederate assured. "I can't die from a simple illness like this." He wasn't about to tell a young man that he was standing in the presence of an immortal country who was unable to actually die.

Well, he wouldn't die if he could at least put the war to a stalemate. Winning would be nice, but he just wanted to convince the Union to allow him and his people to live in peace.

The man scratched at his neck. "It could turn into more than a simple illness," he muttered, obviously uncomfortable.

Confederate opened his eyes and eyed the man carefully, keeping a hand over his forehead. "How old are you?" he slowly asked, noticing the still-soft cheeks and the clean-cut hair. The boy couldn't have been older than eighteen.

His suspicions were proven true. "Not a day below fifteen."

"And how about a day above?"

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it just as quickly, resembling one of the fish Confederate remembered seeing. His stomach churned, but he pressed on. "A few weeks, perhaps? So, you are fifteen, are you?"

Rather reluctantly, the boy gave a nod, clearing his throat and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his worn trousers. "I'm an apprentice. My father wanted me to become a sailor."

"What do you want?"

"Pardon?" the boy blinked, eyes wide as he gazed upon his country.

"What do you want out of life?" Confederate asked again, expanding on his question. "Would you like to be a lawyer? How about a doctor? Or perhaps you're more interested in a quiet life as a reverend of a local church."

The boy looked confused. "I-I'd like to be a sailor, of course!"

Confederate smiled, though it was small and gentle, as he still felt a little too ill to do anything else. "Is this because your father wishes for you to become a sailor, or because you wish to become a sailor?"

"We-Well...a little of both, I assume." When the boy noticed Confederate's raised eyebrows, he looked sheepish. "Okay, it's more his idea than mine. But I don't care, honestly. It's been exciting so far, seeing new places and meeting new people. I suppose I could continue forward with it."

"Just suppose?"

With a sigh, the boy shook his head. "Look, sir, I mean you no offense, but I don't think you're in any position to be telling me off. You're the one who can't even seem to keep his own lunch down."

Confederate had to admit that the boy had a point. "Breakfast," he still felt like correcting. "Can't keep my breakfast down. Couldn't even eat lunch." He put a hand over his mouth, then held up his free hand. "'Scuse me," he burped out, quickly standing up and spinning so his body was hanging over the side of the ship.

Then he threw up his breakfast.

The very first thing England had asked him when they sat down for a discussion was, "I trust your journey over here was fine?"

Confederate stared at him for a few seconds before smiling in amusement. "It was lovely," he lied, folding his hands in his laps. His palms were sweating in anticipation. He was sweating in anticipation. He had to prove that he was worth England's time. He had to prove that his nation was worth helping. If he couldn't get England on his side, he couldn't get anyone on his side.

"I'm glad," England responded, his large eyebrows rising slightly at Confederate's expression. "You don't have to act so high-strung, lad. I won't bite you."

"Ah," Confederate intelligently replied.

"Honestly." England sipped at his tea, green eyes scrutinizing the young country in front of him. "Currently, I've no quarrel with you."

Confederate blinked. "Um, currently?"

The island nation across from him rolled his eyes in a very dignified manner. Confederate almost wanted to take notes. "I've fought with your country in the past, I hope you realize. The, er, Revolutionary War-" Confederate could see the small grimace that appeared on the elder's face. "-and that other war, whatever it is you chose to-"

"War of 1812?" helpfully supplied Confederate.

England's eyebrows furrowed down.

"Yes," he mused. "Yes, War of 1812. Creative name."

"It's war. Why should we bother with creativity?"

Confederate could have sworn that England was about to scold him, but the man's face looked more thoughtful than anything. "You know, you might have a point there," he stated. "War isn't about creative names or flashy weapons. War is simply about killing and destroying and conquering." He gave a sad smile, eyes fixed upon the younger of the two. "I'm sorry you were born into it, but I must admit that I know the feeling."

"Do you?" Confederate would give anything to have someone know what he was going through.

Chucking, England nodded, setting his tea back on the expensive-looking china plate. "Yes. I, too, was practically born in war. My childhood wasn't complete, it seemed, unless I was taken over, fought over, kicked aside...you know, the usual."

Confederate didn't know that would be usual, so he kept his mouth shut and listened to England speak.

"I grew up with fighting. It's all I've known. And when I finally thought I'd have someone to take me away from all the fighting, someone to show me true love, he...he turned away." His stare glazed over, seeing the far past and all the joys that had come in those times. "We shared so many fond memories together, and I thought we'd never grow apart. I thought he'd stay mine and I'd stay his."

Feeling uncomfortable, Confederate shifted in his seat.

"But, oh, goodness." England laughed. "I saw he was growing and I refused to let him go. I refused to let that, that adorable boy be taken over by a smart, strong, outspoken man. In my haste to bring him close to me once again, I managed to tear the veil between us even more so, until he one day let it rip into shreds."

Confederate swallowed. "Do you regret it?" he asked.

England hummed, shrugging his shoulders. "I regret how it all turned out," he responded. "I regret losing. And, yet, I also regret being the one to bring it to that point." He gave a smug smirk, though his words were anything but smug. "I do acknowledge the fact that it's my fault."

"Oh."

Confederate didn't know what else to say to that.

"Lad, I'm honestly tired of fighting against America. With the two of you split as you are, I already know I could beat him. Any country could beat him. He's weakened, fighting a war at home, and it would be a simple matter to swoop in and defeat him."

"Really?" Confederate felt his heart hammer in his chest. "Wo-Wouldn't it, now? See, you would be the most excellent asset to this fight. You're able to help us win in a matter of months, and then I could actually beco-"

"My answer is no."

Confederate stopped mid-sentence, his mouth still open as he stared at England. "You- what?" He shook his head, horror gripping at his heart. "N-No, please don't say that, we really need-"

England cleared his throat. "Your diplomats are being told the same thing as we speak, just so there's no confusion on anyone's part."

"England, please-"

"I suggest you stop begging. It was never something America did."

"I'm not America!" Confederate screeched, shooting up from his chair and slamming his hands on the table. "I'm the Confederate States of America! I am a separate and equal nation who is being attacked by a nation who is supposed to be my brother!" He pounded his fist down again for good measure, and felt a little burst of sadistic pride when England flinched. "I demand the same amount of respect you're giving to, to him! I demand for aid and assistance!"

England composed himself and stared coldly at Confederate. "You have no right to demand anything from me," he hissed. "I will not help you, Confederate. I am not sending my men off to die for you."

Confederate tried to hold back a whimper, but it escaped his lips anyway. England looked curious. "Are you going to cry?" he asked, seeming unconcerned.

It was slowly beginning to dawn on Confederate. "You still love him."

"Par-pardon?"

"America. You still love him. And you hate me, because I'm also him." He took in England's widening gaze and realized he was correct in his assumptions. "You're not helping me because I am him, but you want the one with his name."

England said nothing.

Bending over slightly to be more level with England, Confederate decided to try once more. "England, please. I know I don't have his name, but look, it's me, it's...I'm the nation you raised. I know I am. I'm the one who believes in states rights and freedoms. I'm not the one being a tyrant and locking up innocent people! I've always been against such things, and now look! Look what America's become, and look at me, the colony who fought against you for rights. Am I not the one you love?"

"Don't you dare, Confederate," England snapped, also standing. "Don't you dare tell me such things! I know the child I love, and he isn't you." He pointed at the door, narrowing his eyes. "I will not help you. I believe in your cause, but do not confuse me in such a manner. The best country will win, Confederate, and if it is you, you have all of my happiness, but for now, I do not wish to have anything more to do with this goddamn war. Now, leave."

Confederate clenched his fists by his side, but rather than continue to argue, he followed England's orders. The island nation had his mind made up, and there wasn't any changing it. He'd just have to get used to fighting such a battle alone. He was strong, after all; he could handle it.

Then why couldn't he even stop himself from falling down in the narrow hallway and bursting into tears?

oh my gosh that was angst wasn't it or at least me trying to write angst i apologize.

Notes? I promise, it won't be nearly as long as it was last time:

The Trent Affair (AKA the Mason and Slidell Affair) was basically how I explained it to be in the story; James Mason and John Slidell were envoys to England and France, and the Union captured them and held them captive. England was royally pissed about it (royally, get it, england is a monarchy and people are royal, look at me go) and demanded that England release the prisoners and issue an apology. The US was rallied together to go to war against England, but Lincoln refused to do so (England was the leading world power at this time). England, in response to Lincoln's, like, refusal to do anything, strengthened its forces in Canada and the Atlantic. Finally, not wishing to go to war, Lincoln released the prisoners, but never issued a formal apology. (Bad Lincoln, you really do suck.) The envoys never accomplished their goals.

Confederate, seasick? Yeah, I guess it's a headcanon of mine. I have plausible reasons, though. The Confederacy was under the Anaconda Plan for so long that they didn't get much time to, you know, explore the seas. Trading was scarce, and they kept to their waters. Confederate, as a person, would have probably been more comfortable with land battles, so when he had to travel far on a ship, he became sick.

Clement Vallandigham is going to be the most important name you'll ever hear. He hasn't been mentioned yet, and I'm not sure if he will or not, but he is probably the most famous man to be imprisoned by Lincoln (save for Francis Key Howard). Why was he imprisoned? He was a northerner who sympathized with the South (a Copperhead). Basically, he spoke out against the US government, and was imprisoned, then deported. Uh-huh. Lincoln loves equality.

Annnnd, that's about as far as I can go without inserting my personal opinions on certain matters (which I do anyway). I hope you enjoyed, and feel free to leave a review!