The long awaited! Or is it? It feels like a long time since updating to me. Please enjoy!

UK Family Christmas.

Britain stared at the tree. It sat there impassively, not caring that he hated it, its top branches scrapped and curled over his ceiling, dropping their needles onto his clean floor below. Fucking America. Britain didn't hate Christmas trees, but he preferred them to be tastefully decorated, match the rest of his Christmas ornaments, and most importantly, FIT IN THE DAMN ROOM.

One couldn't fault America's dedication to the season – not content with just invading Britain's house with the biggest, most gaudily over-done tree that had ever existed in all the world, he had laden his poor brother down with more presents than all the orphan children in England would see that year combined. Britain's lovely living room was awash with brash colours, boxes and the stench of plastic. Despite being a guest, America had bought his video game system, and he and Canada sat on the floor in front of the tv blasting zombies. Had Britain failed that badly to teach that boy manners? France, stood beside him at the living room door, surveyed the mess in the living room.

"I am not cleaning this up." He declared.

"You invited them." Britain reminded them.

"America invited them." France corrected "You said it was ok."

"Only because you had already told them yes!"

"Oh, and since when do you agree with me, cher?"

"Hey, can we get some pretzels over here?" America called, waving his hand about in the air without taking his eyes of the screen.

"No you may not!" France said sternly "I am making Beef Wellington for dinner, it will be ready in half an hour!"

"Whaaaa? Sounds gross. Who'd want to eat an old boot?"

France groaned in frustration, making a strangling motion with his hands.

"Hey, tomorrow, can we have burgers?" America went on.

"NON!" France shrieked in horror "You do not have burgers on Christmas day!"

"How come?"

France was speechless, mouth hung open in shock. Silently, he threw his hands in the air, grabbed the tea towel from his shoulder and pressed it against his ears to drown out the sound of the videogame and went back to the kitchen. Britain couldn't help but laugh. He manoeuvred his way carefully across the floor, around the myriad of presents, plates and cups, and a bear reading 'Treasure Island' (seriously, what was up with that bear?), and sat on the couch behind the boys, watching them play. America swore at the screen and jumped about where he sat, while Canada played quietly. Well, some things never changed. A sudden jerk from America sent Canada toppling back, hitting the sofa where Britain sat. The Canadian went to apologise, but Britain just smiled at him. Canada smiled back and went back to his game, but continued to lean against Britain's legs.

"Hang on," Britain noticed "It looks like there's five of you playing. Who are those other fellows?"

"The one in green is Japan." Canada told him "The one in yellow is Korea, and the one is pink is Poland."

"Poland in bright pink, imagine that." Britain muttered.

"And I'm in red 'cause I'm the leader!" America announced triumphantly.

"Colours are picked randomly when the game starts." Canada confirmed.

"Hey man, why you gotta harsh my buzz for, huh?"

"'What.'"

"Huh?"

"Not 'why', 'what.' And for that matter, it's not 'huh' either." Britain scolded "Honestly, America, didn't I teach you how to talk properly?"

"Whatever, dude."

Obviously not. Britain watched them play for a while: he couldn't tell if they were winning, but a lot of zombies seemed to be dying. Did that count as winning? The red player (America) marched ahead shooting everything, while the green player (Japan) checked all the bodies and boxes for items. The pink player (Poland) ran about the place trying to jump on things ('Dude, this isn't fucking Mario, you can't jump on shit!'), while the yellow player (Korea) stood at the head of the dead zombie bodies and…crouched? What was that about? Canada was the blue player, and it seemed to be his job to keep his team-mates from being eaten.

"I say, you're rather good at this." He complimented, patting him lightly on the shoulder.

"I know, right? I'm super boss!" America declared again "That's why I'm the hero!"

"Yes, yes, whatever makes you happy, dear."

France called them all in to dinner soon enough ('Non, you cannot eat Beef Wellington on the floor while you play videogames!') and they sat about chatting happily as they ate. The boys were still abstaining from drinking (for reasons they still hadn't explained), and since alcohol messed with Britain's pills, France was the only one who partook of a glass of fine red wine. He was incensed that there had been so many bottles left over after the party, especially when almost all the scotch had disappeared (but lets be honest, it had all but disappeared into Scotland), but he was resolved to drink his way though them. Since he wasn't a heavy drinker – bar the occasional binge when his buddies were around – that was going to take some time to accomplish.

Discussion turned to whether or not Mr. Kumajiro should be allowed to eat at the table, seeing as he was an animal. The debate was that since Fifi was not allowed to eat at the table, neither should he, but Canada argued that since he was a talking animal, it should be okay.

"Besides, I feed him at the table all the time at home." he defended.

"He does." America confirmed as he shovelled beef and pastry into his mouth.

"May I have some more water, please?" said bear asked France ever-so politely, since he had learnt he needed to be on his best manners here, or he got nothing.

France obliged, taking his glass.

"That's not a suitable reason." Britain argued "An animal is an animal, regardless of whether or not it can talk, and the fact that you feed it at the table at home is just awful."

"Oh, come now, Britain, you are being too hard on him." France cooed as he handed the bear his drink "You can hardly compare Kumajiro to some common cat or dog!"

"You're not helping." Was the scorned reply.

France laughed, ruffling Canada's hair.

"You can ignore him." He insisted "What he won't tell you is that he used to insist on feeding his 'unicorn' as the table when he was younger."

He laughed as he sat down, sipping his wine.

"Whenever I told him unicorns didn't exist, he would pitch such a fit!" he revealed "He would scream and cry until I gave in!"

"Unicorns do exist, bloody frog!" Britain yelled, going bright red as the table descended into its usual chaos.

Canada and America were surprised to find the older nations sitting around in their pyjamas the next morning. Being Christmas day, they had dressed up nicely, brushed their hair and teeth perfectly and put on their best face, ready for whatever the day would throw at them. The older two hadn't bothered to even brush their hair at all, and sat in the living room in their slippers and dressing gowns, drinking coffee and smoking.

"Aren't you gonna get dressed?" America asked in amazement.

"What the devil for?" was Britain's response.

"Wha… what about going to church?"

"Mass ended hours ago." he pointed out "It's closed now, like everything else."

"What about carollers?"

"No-one carols in Britain." France joined.

"What if a light bulb goes out and you have to go across town to get one?"

"Then we'll have to wait until the day after Boxing Day when the shops re-open."

America was aghast. His brain couldn't comprehend what he was hearing.

"Everything's closed?" he shrieked.

"Mon ami, all the British do Christmas day is eat, drink, fight, drink, watch the queens speech and drink some more." France revealed "Unless there are children, then they open presents in between the drinking and fighting."

"That's-"

The doorbell went, startling the brothers.

"I knew there had to be carollers!" America exclaimed, bolting for the door like it held his salvation.

Canada sat on the sofa between Britain and France, hugging Kumajiro to him. America returned under a cloud of gloom, trailed by the four expected figures.

"What's the hells wrong with the laddie?" Scotland boomed, jabbing a thumb in America's direction.

"He probably thought you were Santa." Wales chuckled as she threw her coat on the back of one of the chairs.

"Aye, he just needs a stiff drink, he'll perk right up." Ireland suggested.

"It's 9.30 in the morning!" America shrieked incredulously.

"Aye, but it's Christmas!" North agreed "God never created a more acceptable excuse to drink in the morning."

"Aren't you Catholic?!"

"No, I am." Ireland pointed out "And I say we raise a pint of bitter in the name of lord. Who's with me?"

The UK cheered and spread themselves out in the living room. The coffee table was soon laden not with boxes of gifts, but clinking bottles of alcohol, tins of shortbread and sweets and plates of finger food. The arrived nations weren't in their pyjamas, but they may well have been for the formality of their clothes – all four were in their slippers! America was incredulous as they got cozy, the television playing ancient movies to no one at all, while the brothers argued and Wales fussed over the cutie-pie bear and his cutie-pie owner.

"Look a that paunch on you, little brother!" Scotland boomed "You're getting fat! Must be all a that high falooting French cuisine you're eatin'!"

"You're calling me fat?" Britain countered "Your weight's doubled in the last 100 years!"

"All muscle, little brother, all muscle!"

"I wuv his fuzzy widdle face!" Wales cooed "He is sooooo soft, just wike a widdle lammy!"

"I smell good too."

"I always thought sheeps wool was more coarse." Canada admitted.

"Not when they're very, very little."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Wales, sweetie."

"Slow your arse down on those sweets, North you'll ruin your dinner!"

"Speak for yourself, Ireland! Slow down on that scotch of you'll have your head over the throne before noon, and I won't be the one holding your hair back!"

Having finished his coffee, France got up and took their mugs to the kitchen.

"Oi, Francy, whats for dinner?" Ireland asked, even as he stuffed his face with shortbread.

"We are having slow cooked lamb, courtesy of la belle Wales, with root vegetables roasted in a red wine reduction, with home made tiramisu for afters."

"You have time to do all that on your own, France?" Wales asked "You need a hand in the kitchen?"

"Belle cher, I do not." He assured "I made the tiramisu the day before yesterday so the liqueurs had time to mature. The lamb has been placed into the slow cooker, and the vegetables will take but half an hour."

"Ye'll make a good wife one day, laddie!"

The UK burst into laughter, France bowing theatrically as he left the room. America went to take his seat, but North leapt into it first, sidling up affectionately to his blond brother. Ireland laughed and gestured to the floor where North had sat previously, and America begrudgingly sat there. He soon noticed something about the UK that he hadn't before – everything they said to each other was an insult.

"You're in no condition to be criticising Wessex – he's as least cute, even if he is getting chubby." Wales defended "You look like you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down!"

"Wassat? Says the oldest hag ever tae walk the British Isles!"

"As far as I'm concerned, you're all as ugly as each other, which is why I'm happy to have a bit o' sea between your mugs and my emerald isle." Ireland smirked.

"Aye, but how do you think I feel having to look at you all the time?" North retorted.

What should have been cruel words only seemed to lighten the mood, and the UK (and Ireland) laughed and cheered and raised their glasses while they belittled and insulted each other.

"Speak for yourself, Wales, you're getting thunder-thighs!"

"Shove some more short-bread in your cake hole, North!"

"Don't mind if I do!"

America was thoroughly confused. Canada sat with Scotland to his left and Britain to his right, looking a little lost, but not unhappy. Scotland put his large arm around Canada's shoulders.

"How have you been, laddie?" he asked "It feels like I haven't seen you since the war!"

"I'm well, thank you." Was his reply "It has been a long time. How are you?"

At the computer, the Skype ring tone started to holler. When was that turned on? Britain immediately got up to answer it.

"That's Sealand!" he declared "He's with Sweden and Finland this year."

"It was fun having the wee lad last year." Noth remembered "It's been a while since we had a babby at Christmas."

He looked at America and smiled.

"I guess you'll do."

The UK all roared with laughter as Britain spoke to Sealand on the computer.

"Don't pick on the laddie, North!" Scotland said between chuckles.

"Aye, but he's right!" Ireland agreed "Poor little shamrock!"

"Shamrock?" America was lost for words – he had never been called 'shamrock' before.

"Don't pull such a long face, lammy, we're all kin here." Wales cooed before turning to her brother "He probably wants to open his presents."

"Agh, I left them in the bloody car."

"Well, go get them then!"

"Like he needs them – have you seen all this crap around here?"

"Who the fuck ate all the toffee coins?"

"You did, you great ruddy pig!"

"Shut up the lot of you! I'm on the skype, you bloody lot!"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Wales, sweetie."

"I'm sorry."

"That's okay, love."

Suddenly, America felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw France standing behind him. The Frenchman smiled.

"Welcome to a family Christmas, America." He said "Keep your hands inside the car, cover your glass and keep Scotland away from the Baileys – he gets weepy."

Christmas in England was an experience America wouldn't forget any time soon – as per France's prediction, they had drunk, fought, drunk, eaten, opened presents and drunk more. They only stopped drinking to watch the worlds oldest lady in the worlds most expensive hat make the worlds most boring speech. Who was she, anyway? The meal was delicious, but he and Canada were relegated to washing up duty afterwards.

"Why doesn't Britain have a dishwasher like a normal person?!"

"Well, he normally lives alone."

"So?!"

"It's uneconomical."

"What does that mean?"

"Less talky, more washy, you two!"

The family hung around far longer than was reasonable, finally stumbling out in a drunken stupor at about 10.30 that night.

"Are they okay to drive?" Canada wondered as they stumbled along the street laughing and pushing each other about.

"Don't worry – black cab drivers are some of the few people who do work Christmas." Britain assured as he closed the door to the cold.

America brushed his teeth as he readied himself for bed. He was exhausted: he hadn't done anything physical all day, but somehow he was completely exhausted, and it showed in the black bags under his eyes. He spat out the toothpaste into the sink and wiped his mouth. As he walked into the hall, he saw Britain and France picking up the mess in the living room and cramming it into black bags. They playfully threw balls of wrapping paper at each other as they did so. America didn't understand older nations. He thought they hated each other. He thought the UK family didn't like each other at all. He clearly wasn't as grown up as he thought.

He scratched his head in confusion as he sat down on the bed with Canada.

"Time for the daily inspection." He announced, taking his brothers hand.

Canada let his brother pull back his sleeves and check his arms, knowing it was more trouble than it was worth to try and fight him. Between America's constant attention and being repeatedly punched in the face, Canada hadn't cut himself in a while. Nonetheless, every day before bed America checked his arms for new cuts. Canada wasn't quite sure what he was hoping to achieve (perhaps it was aversion training, seeing as America punched him if there ever was a cut), but truth be told it was kind of sweet.

"Hey, you boys want any…"

France stood at the door, leftover tiramisu in his hands. He stopped short when he saw the young nations, Canada's scarred and tattered arms on full display, and his face went pale.

"Canada…"

His eyes filled with tears. He dropped the tiramisu onto the ground and launched at Canada, flinging his arms around him and holding him tightly, sprouting off quickly in French.

"Papa, calmer, s'il vous plait…"

"Non, Canada, mon Canada, mon enfant!"

"What the devil's going on?" Britain demanded as he came into the room "Why the bloody hell is there tiramisu all over my floor?!"

"Angleterre!" France cried "Aussi Canada!"

"He also what?"

America was still holding Canada's arm exposed, and Britain soon noticed it. He didn't react as quickly as France had, emerald eyes clearly ticking things over in his head. With a sigh, he scratched his bandaged arm and ignored the ruined carpet as he walked towards them.

"Pourquoi, Canada? Mon enfant!" France continued to sob.

Britain put his hand on as much of Canada's shoulder as was spare, and his other hand he laid on America's.

"So, this is what you boys have been keeping from us." He said calmly "I was starting to worry."

"And you're not worried now that you know?!" America yelled, finally letting go of his brothers arm.

Britain smiled patiently.

"Knowing what a problem is is half way to solving it." He explained.

"Dad…" Canada didn't double back on himself, looking at Britain with big eyes.

"I'm sad that you let it get this bad and still didn't tell us." Britain admitted "But we know now, and we can do something about it."

None of them slept until well into Boxing Day. With both his brother and the two men he considered his parents availed of the secret he had keeping so long, Canada was finally able to break down, and spent most of the night with his head on his fathers lap, crying as he bore his soul to patiently waiting ears. America sat on the floor beside him, close enough that his body was a solid presence, but not close enough to be in the way. Britain stroked Canada's soft hair as he sobbed into his lap, and France didn't seem to be able to keep still, making drinks, hopping from chair to chair, feeding the pig and fetching blankets and snacks as he listened to Canada.

America kept quiet. Taking care of his brother the last few weeks had forced him to take a good look at himself, and truth be told he found areas for improvement. He could admit that, since he was a hero, and heroes don't have big egos. If a hero had a weakness, he worked on it, so that the villain couldn't use it against him later. Right now, he was working on 'sensing the mood.' Right now, he sensed he needed to stay put and say nothing, holding his brothers hand silently.

France and Britain didn't interrupt Canada as he vented hundreds of years of pent up frustration and sorrow, but listened quietly and occasionally asked questions. They didn't question why Cuba came up so much, though, which irked America a little, but he kept it to himself. Finally, as dawn was breaking, the four quietly discussed their options. Canada had tried medication, but he said it made him worse. Britain insisted on asking Hungary about talking cures in the morning, and made Canada promise to phone at least one of them once a week for a proper catch-up.

With nothing more than could be done at 7am on boxing day, the emotionally and physically exhausted group went to bed. Canada, despite his bloodshot eyes, seemed lighter. France hugged him closely before bidding him bon nuit, and Britain gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Britain gave America a worried look before heading into his room.

Britain sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his feet. Emotionally, he was drained, his mind awash with everything and nothing. Canada. He wanted to help Canada. How didn't he notice? Some of those scars on his arms were ancient, the stories he told them heart-breaking. In his depressed state, Britain felt like no-one would ever notice if he fell into the ether, and go on happily without him, but Canada… he wasn't feeling that, he was living it, and that broke Britain's heart in a way that was new and devastating.

A pair of warm arms wrapped around him from behind, France laying his head on Britain's shoulders. He knew the Frenchman was crying again, albeit silently, as he felt his shoulder grow wet and hot. He lent back into the larger man, who squeezed him tighter. He knew he couldn't say anything to make the situation better. He patted France's arms as he cried.

Heart-breaking happy ending? T_T At least for Canada, things are going to improve. Didn't America seem more grown up in this chapter?

A brief note to everyone that has been kind enough to review - I love you guys! I must have pretty smart readers, as you all have wonderful things to say. I especially love those of you kind enough to review multiple times - I know who you are!

Anyway, one chapter left. I have some idea how to end it, but I'm still toying. Please look forward to it!