England's brass timepiece ticks softly, and yet, the page before him is still bare.

By now, a report to Queen Victoria detailing the day's events should have been completed, or at least drafted. Instead, the pen and inkwell sit untouched.

Darkness hangs gently around the soft edges of the apartment's lamps. They hiss quietly, expending their gas for pale, sleepy light. England's head rests upon the writing desk. Its mahogany wood has grown warm against his temple, so he shifts, rolling his head to the other side and finding a cooler spot to soothe his skull. His eyes scan the room in a vain attempt at distraction.

Crown moulding and embellished panels decorate the walls, accented by long, flowing drapes and elegant, upholstered furniture. This hotel room is much more luxurious than the coaching inns and taverns which once populated the city. Dwindling family-run businesses cannot compete with four-storeyed arcade towers, private bathrooms, high windows, and elaborate carpets. This, too, is another sign of progress – an exemplar of the ever-changing future.

England grimaces.

A vision of that blasted lipstick smudge appears in his mind's eye. Must they discuss it? Canada has been alive for centuries and based on tonight's events, he obviously knows how courtship works. If England broached the subject, what would they possibly talk about? Christ, he would rather not. It would save them both the embarrassment. And were things to progress towards their... natural conclusion... there would be no consequences beyond a petty scandal anyway. Besides, with their kind, fathering children is impossible. No, damn the lipstick; that is not the real concern!

The crux of the matter is... adulthood.

England shuts his eyes. Head throbbing, his mind drifts to the early months of 1813, when American raids harassed communities along the St. Lawrence River. It was just after a war meeting; while the men filed out into the cold, Canada lingered behind, wearing a sour expression on his pimpled, boyish face. England was prepared for another mild disagreement, because he had initially forbidden the boy from fighting. Their quarrel happened as expected, but instead of backing down, Canada insisted, saying: 'This is my home. These are my people. Let me defend them.'

Noticeably, he did not say 'our people', and that simple change made all the difference in the world. A rare spark of something burst from behind Canada's passive demeanour that day. He stood, straight-backed with a steady fire behind his young eyes and England could not find the words to make that spirit disappear. So, he relented, putting one of his spare uniforms on the boy's shoulders and a rifle in his hands.

As Canada was an inch or two shorter than England then, the jacket hung loose on his smaller frame, but even so, he gave his thanks. England should have recognised those actions for what they were, but he did not. Maybe it was the plethora of stressors plaguing his mind at the time, from Napoleon to America, or some other unconscious snare. Regardless of what ailed him, he later dismissed Canada's attitude as a rare ill temper, when of course, it was not.

It was a declaration of identity, maturity, and self-reliance. Underneath his kindly demeanour, Canada was already a grown man.

"Your people," England murmurs to the empty room. He sits up, joints creaking from the erosion of centuries, and sighs, dragging his hands over his face.

Presently, it is the spring of 1844 – just shy of seventy-one years since everything fell apart with his former ward, America. England registers a familiar cramp in his stomach and fails to shut it out of his mind.

Through the gaps in his fingers, his eyes drift to the page. Never mind the Queen; he will write to her later. Firstly, he must sort out this neglected thing with Canada, because England cannot get anything else done until he does. What to say, though? Every book that covers respectable letter-writing offers similar advice: to speak from the heart and with only the best intentions. But what the best intentions are, England cannot often deduce, and from the twisting knot in his abdomen, he can almost feel any good will being strangled by apprehension. What if Canada turns out the same as his brother? What if everything crumbles all over again?

England has no idea how others do it. How on earth can one be laissez-faire about such things? Recalling Prussia, England remembers his words:

'I haven't made any plans at all!' he declared today, followed by: 'This is different from a campaign. I'm raising a young man!'

Is it not better to have a strict plan? One that instils good morals, loyalty, and obedience? But... if that were the proper method, England would still be on speaking terms with America. Proper speaking terms, and not the low-contact charade they have going, where discussions are sapped of emotion and only occur out of necessity. Their last correspondence involved settling a trade dispute, and letters were addressed with cold formality. 'To whom it concerns' is how America begins most messages he now sends across the Atlantic.

No, the old methods will only yield old results. England sighs. He takes his pen, dips it in the inkwell, and brings it to the paper.

With no memories of his mother and paltry examples from his brothers, how can he be a proper guardian without any role models to imitate? Only briefly did he ever catch snippets of family life from the humans he knew. The parents and keepers were never perfect, but plenty far exceeded others. Successful households seemed happy, close-knit, and loyal to one another.

'I suppose... I'm striving to let him grow up – to keep him happy and healthy.' Prussia was beaming when he said that.

England hesitates, heart wavering behind his ribs. Then, he starts writing. The words come slowly at first, trickling out of him like a thawing river on the edge of spring. Then they build momentum, flowing steadily; he writes and the pen scratches away. His brass timepiece ticks, interrupted occasionally by whispers of the world around him. Low murmurs of conversation in the room below. A footstep or two from the apartment above.

Beyond that, there is little else. Outside, the world has begun to quiet and his hotel windows that overlook the Tuileries Garden vanish. The universe shrinks down to his singular hotel room and the ink characters that carve emotion out of pulp.

It is near midnight when he finishes the statement and checks it over. It reads less like a speech and more like a letter. Perhaps that is preferable. With a flick of his wrist, he signs it as such and considers slipping it under Canada's door. However, that would be quite cowardly.

He gets up and drags the chair aside, wood scraping against wood, and winces at the sound. Then he exits his hotel room to invade the narrow hallway space in front of Canada's door, pausing before it. Deliberately, England smooths his frown into something normal and placid, clamping down on his final doubts. When ready, he finally knocks and waits for an answer.

For a while, there is nothing.

England's loose fist hesitates in mid-air. Should he knock again? Perhaps Canada is asleep. Yes, that is probably a reasonable assumption. Throat dry, England swallows. It would not be terrible to have this discussion another time; after all, he has written down his thoughts, so the hardest work is done. Still...

Then, the creaking floorboards come to life, and a latch clicks open.

"Um... hello," Canada mumbles, peeking his blonde head through the door.

England coughs. "Canada, I was hoping... erm... Might I have a word?"

Canada slouches and his gaze slips to the ground. Silently, he steps aside and opens the door further. England enters, fingers fidgeting with the pages and pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"Um," Canada says. "Are you upset with me?"

England halts. Then, he turns and gapes at his ward.

"Whatever for?"

Canada shrugs. "For trying to hide the truth? About the actress?"

"Ah, right. That." England sighs. "No, I'm not cross."

"Really?"

"Really. Just don't let it happen again."

Canada's neck droops lower, making him look very much like a scolded dog. England blinks, realising his awful phrasing. "Omitting the truth, I mean! Not the other thing. Don't tell half-lies, of course. Be sure you don't do that. But as for meeting with the actress, that's... well, it doesn't need to be explained in detail. Just be sure you... Erm."

He stops talking. Screwing his eyes shut, England mentally curses himself with every colourful phrase he can imagine. Which, after centuries of living with his brothers, is quite a multitude. He takes a steady breath, exhaling slowly, and opens his eyes. "It's fine."

Canada is staring, wide-eyed and owlish. "Okay."

"Shall we have a seat?" England strains, gesturing to the small yet posh sitting area.

They shuffle to the sofas and sit opposite one another, and England finds the patterned cushions to be much stiffer than they appear. He thumbs through the pages in his lap. "You're not in any trouble," he manages, "but I've written something down that I think you should hear. And after I've read it, we can... have a chat about it. Is that all right?"

Canada arches an eyebrow, but he leans in, the tension melting from his frame. He nods.

"Okay."

England sighs and glances over his handwriting once more. Iron weights burden his shoulders and lead settles in his shoes. This is about as comfortable an atmosphere as he can hope for. All that is left is to push through to the end, come what may.

He clears his throat and silently promises himself that he will not murmur or mumble his next words.