HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA, LOL.

So there is a lot of mpreg floating about in the Hetalia section, mostly because… idk, they're nations and it makes you wonder where they come from, I suppose, given that there's so many more males than there are females. Aaaaand America is one of the most common mpreg victims, usually because of his fifty states, whereupon it often goes down like this:

France: Why Amérique, I see that you do not, at present, have a metaphorical bun in the oven.

America: Oh, yeah, well, I just popped out another of England's hell-spawns last week so right now I'm actually not preggers for once!

France: We can soon fix that, mon cher.

(Nine months and one daughter named Louisiana later:)

Spain: América! How strange it is to see you not impregnated with some randy advantage-taking European bastard's child! I shall be glad to assist you at this difficult time—

England: Back of the queue, Romeo.

While America is the victim in this fic, this will not be going down like the above. At all. There's nothing particularly wrong with it but I'm not really into the whole the-fifty-states-are-separate-entities-and-also-his-children thing; and besides, even if I was, it's been done so many times.

Let's try something a little bit different.

Fair warning about pairings: Majority UKUS with mild-but-important!FrUK; France, additionally, gets his jollies on with a lot of other nations in the background because that's how France rolls, and there are later elements of background GerIta and (ugh, but it's necessary) RussAme.

Other bite-sized information: There's also dubcon and some other general weirdness like all the nations (males and females) being sort-of-hermaphrodites (because you know with AusHun, Hungary tops and Austria carries the child – he seems like he has PMS anyway, right? XD). This first chapter is Fourth of July-ish, hence today's starting date. As in the summary, this is an alternate timeline – so AUish in a weird way in that it's the canon characters in a canon setting where they're personified nations but the world they inhabit is one parallel to the one we know in which history goes rather differently. This is exemplified best, perhaps, by the relationship between France and England in this fic being on such good terms that it's really pretty OOC. In fact, France is so important in this that despite there being rather minor FrUK in comparison to the major UKUS element and, therefore, the significance of America's role in the story, you may have noticed that I chose to use France in the character filter instead of America. Frankly, after some evaluation of what I've already written and what I have yet to write, I noticed that France is actually in it more than America. idek.

DO ENJOY.

I – The Sun is Burning

"Angleterre," France said, uncorking the bottle, "exactly how long has it been since you were in the colonies?"

England shrugged, putting down his fork for a moment to hold out his goblet for a top-up. France was generous and filled it up to the brim, the sway of the ship making the wine slosh against the sides.

"I would say a good many months now," England replied thoughtfully, taking a sip. "It is never my intention to stay gone so long but my duties have been particularly pressing of late. I wish that I did not have to leave America behind but, well… there have always been, ah, issues regarding my bringing him with me. As lonely as it is for him, I believe him to be better off left in the colonies."

France smiled.

"You must be looking forward to seeing him," he said warmly. He gave a sigh. "I for one know that I have missed Canada greatly in the three months that I have been away. Still…" He reached out and patted England's hand. "I do miss my Angleterre, too, when I am apart from him."

"I doubt that, somehow," England said dryly, but he smirked nonetheless. His second mouthful of wine was a much larger one.

"Non, non, but it is true," France implored, laughing. "You do indeed have a very special place in my heart."

"And in your undergarments," England muttered, looking into his goblet very intently.

France smiled and shook his head, going back to his food. At the rate he was going, England was going to be very drunk by the time the meal was finished.

"All in good time, mon cher," he said cheerfully, "if you can still stand."

—

England was not easily roused come morning, huddling under the sheets nursing a hangover; getting dressed, France left him to go up on deck and watch the ship pull neatly into Boston Harbor. The bustle began as the crew and harbour workers began to swarm the ship, unloading goods down gangplanks, and the mooring was well underway by the time France went back to the cabin he and England had shared throughout the five-week journey to drag him out of bed. America and Canada often came down to the harbour to meet them, after all, and it wouldn't do to keep them waiting.

"It is too late to breakfast on the ship," France said conversationally, watching England dress, "and besides, I rather feel like getting off these rotten planks. Shall we breakfast in Boston?"

"I suppose it depends on if America and Canada have come down," England grumbled, doing rather a bad job of lacing his waistcoat up at the back. "My god, France, why did you let me drink last night? My head is pounding."

"You were quite insistent, if I recall, about many things, alcohol notwithstanding," France replied, watching England fumbling with his stay-laces. He paused, hesitating, before remarking further on England's attire. "From here it looks like your girdle is not laced correctly either."

"Oh, bother, I'm making a right pig's ear of it all!" England let his hands drop and looked over his shoulder at France. "Do lace me up properly, won't you? Usually I am capable of doing it without help from servingmen and the like but I cannot seem to get it right this morning at all." He folded his arms crossly as France came to him and began to pull the botched cords on the green girdle loose again. "Blow European fashion. I am all for looking respectable but these lace-up fastenings are becoming extremely tiresome. And as for the girdle... I hardly think I even need one, for I am not some middle-aged politician who has eaten and drank too richly and too well for my entire long life. It is not as though I have, as in their cases, a paunch to poorly hide – and yet they make them in bright patterned silks and velvets and so it becomes fashionable and I must sit in court like some poor corseted woman, barely able to breathe for how tightly I am done up. There have been hot days on which I have been close to fainting."

He was babbling somewhat and France knew it.

"It is not good for the innards, either," the Frenchman agreed mildly, feeding the cords through the correct eyelets. "Well then, you must tell me if it is too tight." He put his hands up under the waistcoat to straighten the girdle before taking the laces and pulling them an inch or so. "Enough?"

England didn't say anything, looking down at the floor.

"Angleterre." France's tone was gentle. "You must tell me if you cannot breathe comfortably."

"It... it is fine," England said after a long pause. "That will do."

It was still rather loose, sitting at his hips instead of winching in his waist the way it was supposed to, but France simply nodded and lashed it with quick, efficient knots. England fidgeted with his cravat as France laced up his waistcoat for him in the same fashion, grumbling to himself again. France gave him an affectionate little peck to the temple when he was done.

"Do you think it is hot?" England asked irritably, pushing him away half-heartedly.

"It is warm for a morning, yes," France replied. "I think it is going to be a hot day. Boston is humid, after all."

"And here we are, piling on the layers." England straightened and reached for his cream silk morning coat, pulling it on over his white-and-gold waistcoat. He tugged the collar straight, regarding his appearance with some chagrin in the mirror. "This is why humans do not live very long, you know."

"Oh, what care you for humans?" France sighed, wrapping his arms around England from behind. "I do not think you would be terribly upset if they all put themselves into early graves because of their clothing."

"Hush now, walls have ears," England muttered. He unwound France from himself, feeling him inevitably beginning to grind against him. "And no more of that, if you please."

France simply grinned.

"Ah, because we are in the colonies now," he said, "and only America will suffice. Very well, mon cher." He lifted England's hand and kissed his knuckles. "I will restrain myself until our next European rendezvous."

"How very kind of you." England reached back and fixed the blue ribbon in France's hair. "Shall we go, then? I want to get the hell out of this God-awful cabin."

"Of course," France said gracefully, and he strode to open the door. "After you, naturally."

England eyed him suspiciously.

"You're going to slap my arse," he said flatly. "I know you are."

France smiled angelically at him.

"Only if you allow me."

—

Only Canada was waiting at the dockside. France ran to him and embraced him, Canada hugging him back and chattering to him in excitable French. England approached and, knowing that Canada spoke little English, inquired in French where America was.

Canada looked at him icily, the smile visibly draining off his face.

"He did not feel up to coming all the way down here," he bit out. "It is understandable."

"Why, cherie, is dear Amérique unwell?" France asked, holding Canada at arm's length.

Canada looked from France to England and then back again.

"Ah," he said, "I see he has not been entirely forthcoming in his letters to you. Well, it is not my place to say."

Losing his patience – for he never had much of it with Canada – England seized the boy's arm.

"If America is unwell, then I demand that you tell me so!" he snapped.

Canada looked away, trying to tug his arm free. England shook him.

"Canada!"

"Angleterre, restrain yourself," France said frostily, taking England's wrist and removing his hand. "Shouting will solve nothing. Perhaps Amérique has asked Canada to hold his tongue."

England snatched his hand back and glared at Canada, who stood his ground for the barest of moments before ducking behind France, white-faced. Exhaling, England turned to look at France, who in turn appeared to be irritated with him.

"I am afraid breakfast will have to be postponed," he said flatly. "I must go to America at once. Perhaps you will join me on the morrow?"

He spoke only to France, not so much as glancing in Canada's direction. The invitation was not directed at him and both he and France knew it. France closed his eyes for a moment.

"Very well," he conceded, "since we have had a pleasant journey in each other's company and I would hate to end it on a sour note. Breakfast on the morrow it is. I shall be glad to inquire after Amérique's health."

England nodded and turned away, finding the cab onto which his boxes were being loaded and starting towards it without another word, worried and distracted. Damn Canada – lately he had become very obtuse and it didn't help that France always defended him...

The ride back to the house was a short one, for England had always preferred proximity to the harbour for the ease of his frequent coming and going, but it still went much too slowly for his liking, the carriage rattling back and forth as the horses stalled, the wheels seeming to struggle on every last pebble. England fidgeted; he hated cabs and rode them only out of sheer need for travel, and moreover he was desperate to be there and already much too hot in all these layers. His silken morning coat was off and discarded barely halfway through the journey, and he lay slumped against his seat, collar open, fanning himself with the morning paper while he fixedly aimed his thoughts elsewhere, someplace airy and open, salt and high seas, when they finally lurched into the yard of the country house on the very outskirts of Boston. Throwing open the door, he scrambled down and ran across the yard, gravel crunching and frothing under his feet as he darted between people already scurrying to and fro with boxes, grooms who had come down to attend to the horses, maids who had come out to acknowledge his arrival. He was treated like an ambassador with all the perks and all the old money, but nonetheless tried his utmost not act like one. He wasn't much in the way of humans and didn't like being surrounded by them at all times, even if they were servants; he kept them on only to run the house in his prolonged absences and, more importantly, to look after America. He considered them the servants of the king and of the country, having been assigned to attend on him – but not his servants, nonetheless. By now they all knew that he was civil to them out of mere necessity and, as such, he was not questioned or pursued as he ran past them all into the house.

He went straight for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, thinking that America must be bedridden or the like to have not come down to the harbour this morning. He loved Boston Harbour, if only because he was good at persuading England to buy him food there, fresh catches of lobster and shellfish. He wondered if any of the household servants had sent for the doctor, worried that America might be gravely ill. He hadn't been terribly sick in a great many decades but it had taken him several weeks to recover from one bout as a child, England fretting at his bedside the entire time. His health had never been exactly top-notch.

He checked America's own bedroom first, finding it empty, before going down the hall to the much larger master bedroom (which America more often than not shared with him), opening the door to find the room warm and dark, the curtains still drawn. America was curled up in the middle of the big four-poster bed, still fast asleep. He didn't look ill, England noted – just rather tired. Perhaps he had feigned illness to Canada for want of a lie-in?

Relieved, England crossed the room and went to the curtains, pulling them back to let the mid-morning light spill in. Glancing to America, England noticed with amusement that the teenager's brow furrowed deeply before he pulled the covers over his head a moment later. He went to the bed and sat on the edge of it, prodding at America through the sheets.

"Go away," America moaned irritably; which was ironic, for England himself had said exactly the same thing to France barely two hours ago, albeit with rather more vehemence (fuelled by a devil of a headache which had, thankfully, finally subsided).

"But I have only just arrived," England said gently, undoing his stay-laces and pulling off his girdle. He slung it onto the floor, not thinking there would be much need for being so pathetically, pretentiously primped today. "Surely you cannot want me to leave already, America."

There was sudden movement under the covers and then America sat bolt upright within his nest of bedding, his shoulder-length gold hair wild around his face. He still looked half-asleep but his blue eyes lit up when he saw England, throwing open his arms and launching himself at him as best he could.

"England!" he cried happily, squeezing him. "You are home!"

"I am," England agreed, cuddling him back; and at length noticing that there seemed to be a lot more of him than usual around his middle, his whole frame feeling heavier. Frowning, England only let him clutch at him a moment longer before pushing him back to have a proper look at him.

America, who – in his excitement – had apparently forgotten his current physical state, gave a sudden little gasp and grabbed at the bedclothes to cover himself, holding them at his chest as he looked down, away, anywhere, red-faced. It was too late, however, and his blush only served to say that he knew it. Even through his nightgown, his swollen stomach was unmistakeable.

After a moment's stunned hesitation, England tentatively cleared his throat, but no words followed. He didn't know what to say. He simply watched America finally, defeatedly drop the sheets from his shaking fingers and move instead to place his hands on his belly – perhaps protectively.

"Please... do not be angry," he said in a small voice. He finally looked up, his eyes wide and pleading. "It is yours, I swear! I have not... I mean, with anyone else—"

"How long?" England asked hoarsely. "How... how many months along are you?"

"I do not know." America looked very frightened – as though terrified England would suddenly wring his neck. "Perhaps... perhaps about five months..." He shook his head. "I do not know," he said again desperately. "I did not notice until two months ago. I had no symptoms until... well." He looked down at his abdomen, rubbing at it. "Until it became somewhat obvious. At first... I thought that I was merely putting on weight but I seemed to grow larger even when I ate less and then..." He took a deep breath. "I felt it move."

England didn't respond for a long moment and America, too, fell quiet, huddling at the head of the bed with his round belly cradled in his hands. The colour had drained completely out of his face now to leave him white and miserable-looking.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice tiny, his shoulders hunching. "I know you are angry but we... we can give it away if—"

"Oh, my treasure." England reached for him and pulled him close again. "I am not angry with you, of course I'm not." He felt America clutch at him, beginning to cry, and rocked him soothingly. "I am merely taken aback. I thought we had been more careful." He rubbed at America's hair, smoothing it down; he wished he would wear it short the way he had when he was a child. "We used contraceptive measures precisely because I did not want this to happen."

America looked up at him, worrying at his lip. His eyes were wide and wet.

"However," England went on, smiling weakly at him, "it is done and there is no undoing it. Precious thing, of course I am not angry with you. This is not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it is likely me."

America sniffled and England picked up a handful of the sheets to wipe his face with.

"There now, dry your eyes and cease to worry. You shall give the child away only if you want to – otherwise you shall keep it." He gave America a reassuring squeeze. "Do not fret, for I will look after you, I promise."

Barely moments after his face had been mopped dry, America started crying again, this time from sheer relief. England pulled him onto his lap and cuddled him, letting him sob. Ah, how he had missed him, this one thing he loved most in the whole world.

But what a shame. America was very young himself, barely a century and a half old, in the physical body of a boy about fifteen or sixteen; and now that small body carried another life within it, swollen out of his youthful proportions by England's misdeeds. England hesitated, then lifted a hand to gently, gingerly place it on America's abdomen, feeling the globe of new life through his thin cotton nightgown. America smiled through his tears and placed his hand on top of England's, his hand warm.

Ah. What a shame indeed.

England spent the rest of his day ignoring his work in favour of letting out America's clothes for him, unpicking stitches and putting in additional pleated, buttoned panels along seams so that they could be easily made bigger when the time inevitably came. Some of the maids had already opened out the seams on his clothing previously, which accounted for his being dressed in garments that fitted him tolerably well at the moment. He was fast growing out of them, however; and besides, England found, perhaps out of sheer spite, that he didn't much like the job the maids had done, picking faults in their stitching as he undid it.

He was angry with the household staff, thinking that at least one of the servants in a higher position might have taken the liberty to inform him of America's condition, especially considering that America had been too afraid to mention it in his own letters. As such, England was even sullener and snappier with them than usual and they all began to gradually avoid him more and more as the day wore on.

He wasn't bothered by having to make his own tea, preferring not to have them fawning about him as they had been hired to do, and thought that afternoon for the hundredth time as he repositioned the buttons on a pair of America's breeches if he might get away with dismissing the household help altogether.

America's mood was greatly improved since that morning, delighted by England's presence and company, and he scurried back and forth between the intervals of his regular routine to tell him this or show him that or simply hang around him. His hair pulled back with the customary silk ribbon, he was dressed in an old, worn tunic which still had a little bit of room in it – and he laughed when England grumbled about his own tightly-laced waistcoat, saying that he was glad to have escaped dressing like that for another few months.

"Nonetheless," England said primly, threading his needle, "a gentleman must look his best, America."

America snorted.

"I do not think that I exactly fit into the category of 'gentleman' anymore," he said, lying down on the fur rug and putting his palms gently to his belly. "Not that I did to begin with."

"It is not about fitting into categories. It is about giving the appearance of doing so. This is the society that humans have created."

"Oh, but humans are so boring."

"I quite agree." England reached for the teapot and poured out two fresh cups. "Now come and drink your tea and stop rolling around on the floor. I hardly think it is good for you in your condition."

"Actually, it eases the ache in my back," America replied, but he got up nonetheless and came to join England at the parlour table. He appeared to still be able to move very easily, used to carrying the extra weight and not having to heft and heave himself to get up; although, speaking of his back, England had seen him rub at the small of it a few times to soothe the strain on his muscles.

At least his appetite was the same. He ate all of the biscuits on his own plate before starting on England's, chattering away glibly about a book he had read recently. He seemed happy enough, positively glowing in England's company, but nonetheless England couldn't help but notice that he sat – perhaps unwittingly – with one hand on his stomach the entire time. He was not rubbing at it, his palm merely in place as a sort of absent-minded protective measure—

As though he was afraid that someone might rip it right out of him.

He looked fixedly down at his tea as one of the manservants (grudgingly, it seemed) came into the room to inform England about the condition of one of the horses; out of the corner of his eye, only half-listening, England watched the teenager stirring distractedly at the beverage, seeming to curl up smaller in his seat. It was unlike him, for he was not usually cowed by the presence of people he wasn't familiar with, nations and humans alike. And, in fact, these were the same servants which had been here for years, so it wasn't even that America was simply being shy.

England frowned. Odd. Suspicious.

Familiar.

—

"I missed you," America insisted, wrapping his arms around England's neck. "Sorely I have wished that you were here, especially..." He trailed off, worrying at his bottom lip.

"I know." England kissed his forehead. "I truly am sorry, poppet. Nothing but direst necessity kept me from you, I assure you." He felt America's belly bump against his own as he embraced him properly and sighed into his hair. "Of course, had I but known about this, I might have been yet more inclined to make my excuses—"

"I... I was afraid." America took a deep breath. "I could not bear to tell you, even in writing. I... I know that this will cause... problems—"

"None that cannot be fixed," England promised. "This cannot be undone and so we will simply have to make allowances for it."

He picked loose the knot of America's bow and pulled it out, letting his flaxen hair fan brightly over his shoulders. It was the fashion, long hair and wigs in its image, and England stood out for not having adopted it himself. Humans and nations alike in both Europe and the colonies wore their hair in this manner but England had decided centuries ago that long hair simply did not suit him and reasoned that since he suffered the day's fashion, he should not have to suffer the bird's nest of bedraggled, impossible locks that he simply knew he would end up with should he grow his hair out. America and Canada, conversely, had hair more in the way of France's and wore it longer at the Frenchman's (expert) insistence.

"Besides," England went on, stroking America's hair, "you cannot possibly think that you would have been able to hide it forever."

America squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.

"I did not want to think about it at all," he whispered, his voice tiny and scared.

Feeling a sudden wash of pity, England held him tighter, rubbing at his shoulders. Poor little thing, suddenly faced with the very real truth that a miniature spark of life was growing inside him, dependent on him, and all alone with no-one to tell but his twin. The housestaff only knew, no doubt, because it was physically obvious, America's frame slender everywhere else but for that perfectly-round bump at his middle. He had wanted England's comfort and yet, at the same time, had been terrified of having to tell him.

"It is alright now," England said soothingly. "You have nothing to fear—"

America leaned up suddenly and kissed him.

"I missed you," he said against his mouth. "Make love to me, England. I missed you so much and cannot stand it a moment longer."

"Ah." England squeezed America's arms. "I do not know if that would be entirely—"

"Is the damage not done?" America began to mouth along his jawline. "Or do I simply disgust you like this?"

"Of course not, treasure." England was stunned at his vehemence and stroked at his cheek to quieten him. "You are always beautiful."

"Then make love to me," America insisted quietly. He clung tighter still, nuzzling his face against England's neck, clearly with little intention of letting go.

England understood. It wasn't that he wanted lovemaking itself. It was simply that he wanted to feel loved.

It wasn't rough or heady or even particularly passionate; for all his apparent desperation, it was clear that America really just wanted to be held close and assured that England still thought of him as the most precious thing in the world. The kisses were sweet, gentle, and America patiently unlaced England's waistcoat instead of tearing at it frantically to get it off as quickly as possible. England, in turn, was careful with him, feeling that he was far more fragile than before. He was, perhaps, more ridiculously cautious than the occasion called for, for deep down he very much doubted that America's belly was going to burst open if he so much as knocked it, but this was the mood; tender, quiet, experimental, nervous.

America slipped out of his tunic and shucked his stretched breeches and placed his hands at his abdomen shyly, his cheeks pinking, as though holding it out to England for inspection, for approval. England put his hands on top of America's for a moment, feeling the frantic pulse against his thin bones, before sliding them up and over the warm, taut flesh. He couldn't feel any movement below his fingers but nonetheless sensed the thrumming of life, the subtle acknowledgement that their creation rested beneath their hands, beneath America's new and brittle skin.

"Our baby," he breathed; but he said it only for America's benefit, to get him to smile.

For all his promises and assurances, of course it wasn't going to be as easy as all that. They weren't human, after all. They had duties, they had attachments, they had rules. There would be consequences for this little mistake.

But there was time enough for that – and he planned to keep it from America as long and as best he could. For now, he simply smiled and touched and held and whispered in the boy's ear that he loved him and America greedily drank it all in.

The position was awkward; America couldn't go long on his back before he began to flounder, gasping for breath, and England realised that his thrusting was pressing the weight against America's ribcage and lungs, crushing the air out of him. Switching the position so that England lay back and America rode hit a brick wall when the teenager couldn't manoeuvre the added bulk around his middle fast or sharp enough to get proper drive and England, in turn, found that he really couldn't lift him on his own hips, practically pinned to the bed by his weight. America groaned out an emphatic no to the half-hearted suggestion that he go on his hands and knees, bemoaning that he was too tired to hold himself up.

On his knees on the mattress, England finally simply pulled America into his lap, making him straddle. America wrapped his arms around England's shoulders, half-sobbing in exhaustion, and England in turn looped his own arms around America's waist to hold him in his lap. The five-month-bump sat between them like a barrier, obvious and obtuse, and England had to do some peculiar and precise mathematical finagling to tilt both of their hips to the perfect angle to allow for the momentum needed. By the time he got it right and was beginning to move again, America barely seemed interested anymore, licking at England's shoulder as though he needed the salt. He kissed it, then rested his chin on it, his whole body loose and limp and relaxed even as England slammed diligently away at him, sudden melancholy in his mood.

"What troubles you, poppet?" England asked, pausing briefly to kiss his neck.

America exhaled through his nose, squirming a bit.

"Nothing," he sighed. "I am simply tired."

"Ah," England sighed into his skin, "I believe... w-we are almost done here..."

"Oh, do not trouble yourself on my account," America said quietly, closing his eyes. "Take as long as you would like. After all, I might as well live up to the names that they call me."

"A party?" France snorted. "It is unlike you."

"I have my reasons."

"Oh, do tell, my angel."

England was silent for a long moment, chasing a few crumbs distractedly around his plate. They were speaking in the crossover, the umbilical cord between their languages, the first hybrid of Court French and Old English which had, much later, become the Middle English of Chaucer's poetry. It was their own language, dead and forgotten except by them – and France only ever used it when he was buttering England up. It was their pretty little promise, one of their oldest bonds.

It served another purpose that morning, however. France had been defiant and had brought Canada along with him to breakfast, arguing that it hardly put England out, for he was one of those polite and detailed hosts who always assured that there was more than was needed so as to appear properly generous. To that end, England had had no choice but to accept the extra guest, although – as was his custom – he barely said two words to Canada, more or less ignoring him completely as though he wasn't even there. Nonetheless, the table conversation had been in French at France's insistence due to Canada's weak grasp of English compared to America's halfway-decent French (which he had learnt, of course, not from France but from Canada himself, the language being their only way of communicating). America appeared to find this amusing, often confiding gleefully to England that he thought that his twin was too stupid to speak their shared language, but inherently England knew precisely why Canada spoke no English: it was because he refused to learn it.

Still, with breakfast over and America and Canada engaged in each other's company with a book, occasionally squawking at one another in French, France steered the "adult" conversation in the way of a language neither twin could understand at all, implying that the utmost entirety of his attention was on England now.

Frowning, England reached for his fail-safe comfort – his teacup – and sipped distractedly at the dregs of the beverage.

"I... I do not wish for him to be ashamed of it," he said at length. "He has done nothing wrong—"

"Except in the eyes of society."

"Human society," England spat. "But we are not humans. We are different, from the deepest complexities of our bodies to the intricacies of basest desires. We are nations, France, and I intend to make them see that this... well, it can only be the promise of great things for the colonies. Does his being pregnant not suggest fertile lands or riches waiting to be unearthed from the soil? Does it not pledge the expansion of our borders onto unclaimed territory, the growth of populations, the success of our venture?" His hands tightened around his teacup. "I am glad that this has happened. I am glad that he has conceived. Perhaps it will show them now that he is worth something."

France smiled and shook his head.

"And that is why... the party?" he asked nonchalantly.

England nodded.

"You are correct," he agreed. "It is very unlike me. You know I despise the majority of humans and avoid them if I can – but I am willing to suffer their presence in my home for a night if it will achieve what I am hoping for. Politicians, ambassadors, writers... whoever I can lay my hands on will be there to see him."

"I am invited, I hope."

"Of course you are."

"And Canada?" A touch more frost to this query.

England looked aside.

"If you simply must bring him, then do," he said stiffly.

France sighed.

"Does America know of this?" he asked, glancing at the twins; they were curled up together on the windowsill with the bright book open between them, Canada turning the pages while America's hands rested on his abdomen.

England stole a brief glance at them, too. It was strange that they had exactly the same face, exactly the same build, and yet looked so different. He scowled and looked away again.

"Not yet," he said. "I will inform him when I am done with preparations. I am sure he will be happy with the arrangement. He does so like to be the centre of attention, after all."

France couldn't argue with that, sipping thoughtfully at his coffee.

"I still consider it a strange approach to the situation," he said. "And it is a situation, Angleterre; that you cannot deny." He sighed and shook his head again, his gold curls bouncing around his face. "I had thought that you might have been perhaps a touch more... careful."

"We were careful," England snapped. "We used assurance caps whenever we could—"

"Whenever you could is not careful enough, I regret to inform you."

"Shut your trap, you revolting hypocrite," England spat, moodily finishing his tea. "If you—"

"Angleterre." France's voice was cool and warning. "Pray clamp your cruel mouth shut."

They both fell silent, tight-lipped. England poured himself some more tea, not because he really wanted it but because it was something to do with his hands. France watched Canada and America; America, who was rather more into roughhousing than his brother, was visibly growing bored and starting to shove at him a little bit, perhaps trying to provoke him into wrestling on the floor with him. Irritated, Canada batted him away, resisting America's attempts to push him off the window seat onto the floor. England, of course, was blissfully (and perhaps deliberately) unaware of America's bullying and seemed rather surprised when France suddenly switched to sharp French, telling the boy off, and he looked up just in time to see America leave Canada alone and curl up to sulk.

"Honestly, you must learn discipline," France said crossly, looking back to England. "You let him do whatever he likes – it is no wonder he is such a brat."

"Oh, are you going to call him names now, too?" England spat.

France blinked, confused.

"Names?" he asked. "What names do you mean?"

England scowled.

"Oh, he will not tell me," he said in a low voice. "Last... last night, when we were, ah, reacquainting relations, he suggested that I should not worry about tiring him out in such a manner. He seemed to think our actions fitting of the nature of certain titles which, of late, I can only assume he has been referred to as. When I pressed the matter, he would say no more – in fact, all he would say hence was my name and that he had missed me." He shook his head. "But I am no fool. To all intents and purposes, he is with child out of wedlock. I can perfectly imagine what they call him."

England clenched his fists on the table, refusing to meet France's eyes.

"Slut," he said quietly, angrily. "Whore. Harlot—"

"Stop it, Angleterre," France interrupted firmly.

"I will not have him debased by those terms!" England burst out. "Humans are pathetic, labelling each other as they do, but all is well so long as they keep it to themselves. I will not have them whispering about him on the stairs and in the streets, judging him by those disgusting expressions, summing up his entire worth by the swell of his belly. If I hear anyone make such a remark about my America, make no mistake that I will rip their fucking head off."

France arched an eyebrow at the eruption but said nothing, finishing his coffee quite calmly. In the wake of it, at France's silence, England composed himself again, stretching out his shaking, slender fingers again on the table's surface. He exhaled and, seeing the movement in his peripheral, turned to find America at his shoulder.

"Why are you shouting?" America asked innocently in English, nuzzling his nose into England's hair. He shot a sly look at France. "Is Big Brother France teasing you again?"

France rolled his eyes.

"No, love," England said dryly. "He is, contrarily, being perfectly darling."

France snorted at this, his mouth quirking upwards several degrees at the corners.

"Ah, it is only your angelic tongue which does me so much credit," he replied smoothly. He glanced at America. "His tongue," he confided, "is saintly – and makes martyrs out of lowly men."

America raised his eyebrows marginally before making rather a show of sliding himself into England's lap, perching there with a pretty smile. He took one of England's hands and pressed it to his belly, keeping it there with his own, and rested his head against the crook of England's shoulder, getting thoroughly comfortable. He was very heavy but England would have felt unkind to shift him off, adapting to the weight of him as best he could. France watched the entire charade boredly; America really could be spiteful when the mood took him.

"Angleterre," France said at length, "perhaps you and I should move our discussion into the study."

"Ah, yes, I..." England patted at America's shoulder. "Please let me up, treasure. I cannot lift you."

"No," America whined, clutching tighter. "I am comfortable here."

"You may stay here, then," France said coolly, already rising. He called to Canada, who looked up from his book. "Canada, do your best to entertain your brother."

Canada rose obediently, putting the book aside, and came over to the table. America still didn't shift, hanging on around England's neck.

"America, there will be plenty of time for this later," England said a bit desperately. "Come now, allow me up."

America defiantly shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Amérique, come with me," Canada said sweetly, taking America's arm and tugging. "We can go out to... to the bakery! Come, I have coins enough—"

"Leave me alone!" America didn't even bother to use French as he lashed out at his twin. "I want to stay with England!"

He planted his hand against Canada's chest and shoved with all of his considerable strength. Canada stumbled, losing his balance, and, with America's arm still in his grasp, dragged him with him as he fell. America toppled out of England's lap with a shriek and landed heavily in a tangled heap with his twin on the wooden floor.

Heart jolting, England sprang out of his chair and dropped to his knees, roughly pushing Canada out of the way.

"America, are you alright?" he cried, terrified.

America, curled up on the floor with one hand protectively cradling his stomach, gave a small nod; England slipped his hands under his arms and pulled him upright.

"Are you sure?" he pressed, holding America to his chest.

"I am alright," America replied against his shoulder, one arm still clamped around his vulnerable middle. "I protected the baby."

"Good." Relieved, England kissed him on the cheek, then on the forehead. "As long as you are not hurt."

America latched onto him again, this time tighter than before, but England let him, stroking his hair. France gave a disgusted roll of his eyes as he came to help Canada up.

"Angleterre, he is fine," he snapped. "Do not mollycoddle him."

England looked up; but his icy gaze with not fixated on France, settling instead on Canada.

"For God's sake," he seethed, "are you fucking blind? What did you think you were playing at, pulling him like that? Can you not see that he is pregnant, you waste of space?"

"Angleterre!" France pulled Canada to his feet, looking furious. "Stay that vile tongue of yours."

"Oh, now it is vile?" England bit out. "My tongue is neither vile nor saintly, France – only truthful." His eyes narrowed as he jabbed his finger threateningly in Canada's direction. "Now make yourself useful and get him out of my sight."

Canada, white in the face, said nothing; he retreated behind France, looking near tears.

"You are being unreasonable," France said coldly. "It was an accident – and one which happened only because America was being so awkward—"

"The fact remains that America could have been injured," England snapped, holding America closer still and feeling him curl into his clinch quite happily.

"I am... I am sorry," Canada whispered. "Amérique, I did not mean—"

"Save your apology, Canada," France interrupted coolly, "for you will receive nothing for your trouble." He put his arm around Canada's shoulders. "Come, we shall take our leave. I have run out of patience with dear Angleterre for today." He turned on his heel, steering Canada rather forcefully with him. "Thank you for your hospitality this morn, my angel. I look forward to your little showcase, though I do hope that you will be in a pleasanter mood."

He stalked out without a backwards glance, half-dragging Canada with him. England sighed and rubbed at America's hair, rather cross that the morning had ended on such a sour note. He blamed Canada, naturally, and severely wished that France had not brought him.

America moved against him again, inching yet further into his embrace so that his round belly was cradled between them; England realised, of course, that America had instinctively protected his stomach when he had fallen, not caring for himself as long as the baby inside him remained safe. It was the kind of thing that translated between their subconscious behaviour and that of humans – the kind of thing that made England uneasy when he remembered that despite the undeniable textbook facts, they were not all that much different from humans in a lot of ways.

Physiology aside, most of the distinctions came from mere base instinct.

"You hate Canada," America mumbled. "You either dismiss him or behave horribly to him. He can do nothing by you to earn even a smile."

"I cannot help it," England sighed. "I wish that I could be kinder but I have no room in my heart for anything but contempt for him. It is wicked, I know, but I cannot change it."

America shrugged, exhaling.

"I care not," he said. "It can only mean that you love me more."

"That is true, I suppose."

America smiled.

"I wonder," he went on quietly, "were you to ignore him for long enough... if he would completely disappear."

"America, lace me up, will you?"

Standing before the mirror, England held out the cords in either hand, his palms sticky. His waistcoat was cream, lavishly embroidered with silk-thread roses and gleaming pearls, and the girdle beneath it a rich, deep red velvet intricately spun with gold. His stay-laces lay loose in his hands, however, for his fingers simply shook too much to tie them himself.

America trotted to him and took the laces to the girdle first, pulling on them with a sharp tug and tying them quickly before England, who had gasped as the thing drew rigid about his waist, could protest that it was too tight; impatient, bouncing on the balls of his feet, America hummed to himself as he grabbed the stay-laces of the waistcoat and hauled them in close as well as though he was fastening up a corset on some powdered and painted lady, knotting them firmly at the small of England's back.

"All done!" he chirped. "Come, England, hurry yourself!"

He scampered away much more lightly than he should have been able to in his state, fetching England's matching red evening jacket. England tugged at his waistcoat a bit, trying to loosen it, already feeling that he couldn't breathe properly. He couldn't budge it an inch and the knots were too tight, too, on the waistcoat to gain much purchase. America was very strong and both of them often forgot it.

"Here, England!"

America returned with his jacket, holding it out for him to put on. He looked so pleased with himself for helping his guardian (...among other things) to dress that England hadn't the heart to ask him to redo the lacing; he'd suffer for now, find France later and ask him to do them properly. France knew. He was gentler.

England smiled weakly and slipped into the jacket as America held it, fixing the lace of his cravat over the collar and skewing it in place with an emerald pin before bending briefly to fix one of the jewelled buckles at the knee of his breeches; then, as satisfied as he was likely to be, he turned to America to give him a final once over. America's appearance was far more important tonight. This was for him, after all.

He was glowing, his cornflower-blue eyes glittering and his flaxen hair bright and silky around his face and down his back, neatly tied with a white ribbon. His jacket, falling almost to his knees, was new, specially tailored for the occasion in royal blue silk and buckled at the back instead of the front so as to give him room. His shirt, too, was specially crafted and fitted exactly to his current proportions, gathered and seamed just above the beginning of his bump so that it fell perfectly and flatteringly around his midsection. The white satin, shining under every which flickering light, drew attention to his belly, caressing the shape of it, making the swell of him rich and fruitful.

Certainly he looked every inch the treasure England so often called him; and England had seen treasure in his time, real treasure, the brilliant gold and breathtaking jewels of far-off lands, plundered and crammed into the groaning bellies of pirate ships. Cold riches pried out of crowns did not compare to America, they never had, and it was more obvious now than ever—

And perhaps it was naïve of him but England wanted badly to believe that everyone else would agree.

Smiling, he kissed America on the forehead.

"You are the most exquisite thing I have ever had the pleasure of setting eyes on," he said warmly, "and I have robbed Spain of his hard day's work more times than I can recall."

America shyly looked away, his face colouring.

"I suppose," he replied quietly, "it is only because you did not have to steal me. I am not... sullied by your sin."

England's expression faltered briefly before he teased it back into a smile. America was, of course, extremely sullied by England's sin, his small body quite literally bearing the weight of it.

"Well," he said at length, "at least no-one can take you from me. You are mine by all rights and by all laws."

America didn't say anything, his head bowed, but a moment later he slipped his hand into England's and gave it a shy squeeze. His other hand rubbed absently as his stomach, the satin flashing with the motion. Worrying that he might be getting second thoughts about being paraded in front of the cream of New England's high life like a prize horse or pig, England tugged him towards the door.

"Come on, then, poppet," he coaxed. "Shall we not do our best to turn some eyes green with envy?"

America remained silent, pale in the face, but didn't resist; he followed England down the corridor, his hand clamped in his, and obediently stopped at the head of the house's grand staircase. The party had already begun, the chatter tripping up over the steps as all the important men who ran the colonies drifted between one another, vultures picking clean the bones of gossip and scandal. They were all primped like peacocks, dressed in their best, smoking and drinking in small and specific gaggles. It was almost everything that England hated about humans all in one room, crammed entirely into one ghastly experience; but he took a deep breath and descended the staircase, bringing America with him after a reassuring murmur in his ear.

Far from being white, America had now turned a deep shade of red, staring fixedly at the carpet as he carefully came down the steps. His free hand was clamped to his belly like a barrier, fiercely guarding it even as his shame prevented him from so much as looking up. Silence had fallen across the room as they came down the staircase like royalty, everyone turning to regard them with some level of interest. There was rather a lot of shock about, England realised with chagrin, and did his best to look haughty about the whole thing. It wouldn't do for them both to look like they were ashamed of it; and regardless, it wasn't his intention to publicly humiliate America. He wanted to show him off. He wanted people, Old and New Englanders alike, to rejoice in the promises of his pregnancy.

They stopped at the last step and, after a moment, England felt America trying to duck behind him. He didn't let him, instead pushing him forward a pace and scowling around at the crowded room, daring them – any one of them – to utter a single word against America even under their breath.

There was complete silence. England spotted France (dressed in rich, glossy black studded with flashing, brilliant jewels) and met his gaze briefly before averting it again and putting his hands on America's shoulders.

"Gentlemen," he said firmly, raising his voice a little so that they would all hear him, all understand him. "Let your ridicule and your mockery, your unkind allusions and cruel slurs, die on your tongues tonight. I have brought America before you for one reason –and it is not so that you may judge him by your trivial moral evaluations."

America lifted his head suddenly, appearing bewildered. England gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze before sliding his hands deliberately down over the teenager's arms and onto the prominent swell of his abdomen, holding that fragile globe in his grasp. After a long moment, America allowed his own hand to drop, his whole body quivering under England's palms.

Pausing for breath, England's bright gaze met France's again; the Frenchman smiled at him, raising his glass.

"This cannot be appraised in human terms, for it is not trivial," England went on, looking away. He was not talking to France, after all. France knew. He was kinder. "Gentlemen, you are looking at your future."

—

"That was quite the moving speech earlier, Angleterre." Speaking in their old, private language, France wrapped an arm around his waist from behind, propping his chin on England's shoulder. "I admire your guts."

"What choice do I have, really?" England asked blandly, not looking at him. "This cannot be hidden." He sipped at his wine. "In that regard, I thought it better to blow the whole thing out of proportion."

"Ah, well, you have certainly done that," France agreed warmly, glancing at the party from his position over England's shoulder. "This is rather extravagant – but it seems to be going down well, nonetheless."

He nodded towards America – who was much happier now – sitting in the midst of some familiar faces, including the colonies' ambassador to France, Benjamin Franklin, and the Massachusetts and Virginia governors, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, respectively. America had recently developed an odd taste for lemons, England had noticed, and was nibbling on a wedge in place of a beverage as he listened, wide-eyed and attentive, to whatever Franklin was saying to him, visibly more relaxed with his hand under his belly to support it rather than on top of it like a shield.

"Indeed," England said softly, watching America flowering in the company of American-born citizens. "A great many people here seem to have taken the news rather well."

"Is that not what you wanted?"

England nodded.

"It was a mistake," he admitted, "and I ought to have been more careful – but regardless, there is no reason for this to be a bad thing. Many of the greatest discoveries come about purely by accident."

"Well," France murmured, "it is out in the open now, for better or for worse. I do wonder how the news will be received in Europe."

England stiffened briefly before shrugging.

"I do not care," he said fiercely. "What will they do if they do not approve – declare war?"

France gave a snort and finally unwound his arm from England's middle.

"It is quite the opposite that I fear," he murmured. "And you know what I mean."

England gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"All that talk in parliament is rot," he said in a low voice. "Nothing will come of it, you mark my words."

France shrugged.

"It is a matter of money, Angleterre – not of convenience. Even the alliance of our nations has not helped matters much. The fact is that the colonies are expensive to run—"

"It is ridiculous to suggest that the colonies can simply be abandoned by the government and sovereignty for the sake of saving a few pounds," England spat. "There will be an uproar on both sides of the Atlantic." He turned away, folding his arms. "And now, if you please, I will hear no more about it. It is absolute rot."

France rolled his eyes.

"Very well," he conceded, "thought I cannot help but feel that you are avoiding the issue. Despite your hospitality tonight, you do seem to be somewhat grouchier than usual."

"My house is full of humans, you are talking utter nonsense, my stay-laces are intolerably tight," England groused, "and I am not nearly intoxicated enough to pretend that none of these things bother me."

"The last issue can easily be remedied, mon cher," France purred. "Take off your jacket and I shall gladly make you more comfortable." His voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "Of course, if you are interested in being made thoroughly comfortable, we can move somewhere more private."

"No thank you," England said dryly, shrugging out of his jacket, "though it is most generous of you to offer. I feel utterly assured that you have no ulterior motive other than to guarantee that I am, ah, thoroughly comfortable."

France grinned and nipped at his neck, laughing when he was pushed away, England's palm to his face; shaking his head, he started to tug at the tight knots America had tied at the back of England's waistcoat.

"I notice that you did not bring Canada," England said archly.

France frowned, pausing.

"He would not come," he said coolly. "I do not blame him. Your sharp tongue is rarely the most pleasant thing to be on the receiving end of. Of course, there are exceptions – but they are always in the realm of your tongue doing rather more manual labour than sheer unkindness."

England gave a disgusted snort.

"Must you always be so perverted?" he bit out.

"That depends," France replied coolly, struggling with the stay-laces. "Must you always be such a nasty piece of work when it comes to Canada?"

England scowled.

"I cannot help it."

"Then I, too, cannot help it." France gave a frustrated click of his tongue, pulling at the knots to no avail. "Angleterre, I cannot get this undone. Amérique has tied it much too tightly."

"Then cut me out of it!" England burst out savagely. "Damn it, France, I cannot—"

"Now then, calm yourself," France said firmly, taking him by the shoulders and turning him around. "Find Amérique and ask him to—Angleterre, stop it!" He snatched England's hands to prevent him from hauling desperately at the cords himself and making tangle worse. "It is panicking which leaves you short of breath!"

"I need this off," England insisted vehemently, wrenching himself out of France's grasp. "I need it off, I cannot breathe..."

"Angleterre—" France tried to grab him again. "Angleterre, come here—"

England insistently pulled himself out of France's reach, stumbling as he began to desperately haul at the waistcoat, taking the collar in either hand and trying to tear it. He felt that it was growing tighter with every short and restricted gasp of air that he took, pressing his ribs and crushing his lungs, and the thing wouldn't give an inch even though he could feel the stitching pulling, breaking under his fraught strength. His heart pounded frantically, his pulse quickening under his hot skin the more he wrestled with his clothing until he was certain that the blood vessels themselves were shattering under the pressure and the blood was pooling against his flesh in backwards bruises—

"Angleterre!" France seized him, forcing him to be still, and held him close for a moment, his hand clamped to the back of his head. "Hush now. Be calm. You know this panicking of yours solves nothing."

England went limp against him, drawing in a difficult, shuddering breath that rattled in his (perceptively) squeezed chest.

"Get it off," he moaned weakly into France's shoulder. "Please, I cannot be in it another moment..."

"Yes, come, come."

France adjusted his grasp on England and manoeuvred him rather forcefully to the door, slipping out with him unnoticed. Out in the corridor, he looked about for the nearest gaudy coat of arms and found one above the decorative mantelpiece at the other side of the hall; he brought England to it, reached up and pulled out one of the swords – a thin thing no good for fighting but highly-polished and sharp.

"Now hold still," he instructed firmly, turning the sword over in his hand and slipping the narrow blade up under all of the lacing at England's back. He turned the sword and gave a small tug, the blade coming cleanly through all of the stay-laces.

England dropped to his knees with a gasp, wrenching the girdle off and sliding his arms through the ruined waistcoat. He tossed them both aside with venom and planted his hands against the wall, panting for breath.

"Better?" France drawled, reaching up to slide the sword back into its proper place.

England simply nodded, rubbing at his ribcage. France frowned at him.

"Angleterre, this does not seem to be getting any better," he said quietly. "And you know as well as I do that it is all false perception. You only felt that you could not breathe when I informed you that I could not get the ties undone. Before that, even if you were uncomfortable, you were fine."

England said nothing, not even meeting France's gaze. France, in turn, averted his own, looking down at the discarded garments with their sliced stay-laces. They were the very highest fashion, finely made and perfectly tailored. For all England's hatred of humans, he nonetheless did his best to fit in with them, copying the way they dressed, the way they behaved, down to the tiniest detail. Of late, it was only his short hair which made him stand out amongst a crowd of them; otherwise he blended in perfectly. Despite the animosity between England and his people, it was obvious that beneath his antipathy, he really did just want to be accepted by them.

He wanted desperately for things to be as they once had.

Sighing, France reached back and smoothed down his hair, tightening his ribbon, before nudging England with his knee.

"Come along, Angleterre," he said. "Compose yourself. We cannot stay out here – and if you wish to further bide your time, at least roughen up your appearance to give the impression that we were engaged in something worthwhile."

"You cut off my clothing," England muttered. "Does that not constitute impression enough?"

"Perhaps." France offered him his hand. "I can ejaculate into your hair, if it would help."

"Oh, you are charming," England said frostily, "for a git." He allowed France to help him up, looking down at himself; he really was only half-dressed now, in only his shirt and cravat. The fact that he was still fully-clothed from the waist down didn't seem to matter in the absence of at least a jacket. "Come," he said briskly, walking away. "Let me find my jacket before you sully my name even more; then I shall seek out America. It is growing late and I daresay he is becoming tired."

France had no choice but to follow him back into the party, grimly amused by how easily England could slip in and out of his mask. It was simply a shame that the cracks in that mask seemed to grow larger every time France saw it fall away. He hoped that the murmurings of discussion from the mainland were indeed 'utter rot', if only for the sake of England's sanity. He didn't know how well England would deal with being forcibly taken away from America – and vice versa – but his hopes weren't high.

England retrieved his scarlet jacket, pulling it on as he walked, and went straight to the little group that had blossomed attentively around America. The three men were still in his company, but their conversation was lower in pitch and between themselves, as America was curled up in his plush seat, his head resting on the arm and his eyes barely open. As a small child, he had been a master of staying up to all hours of the night, but his being pregnant meant that he tired easily, often asleep before nine o' clock. England came to him and crouched in front of his chair to put them roughly on the same level, smiling when America blinked blearily at him.

"Good evening, treasure," he said quietly. "Shall I take you up to bed?"

America gave him a sleepy smile in return and nodded before allowing his eyes to slide closed. England rubbed at his hair and straightened up again.

"Ah," Franklin said warmly, "I daresay the conversation of boring old men has sent him right off." He looked up as France joined them. "There you are, France. I wondered where you had gotten to."

"It is a tragic thing," France replied, grinning, "that I cannot leave dear Angleterre unattended for two minutes." He pinched England's cheek, making him irritably pull his head away with a growl.

Franklin moved up on the small sofa he currently had to himself.

"The both of you, join us for a drink," he insisted, gesturing to the space.

"We would speak with you," Adams said in a low voice, looking between England and France. "It is... important, and perhaps better swallowed with something to take the edge off."

"An excellent idea," France said breezily, looking to England. "What says my lovely better half?"

"I ought to take America to bed first," England replied. "I will join you when he is retired."

Jefferson gave a sage nod.

"Yes," he agreed, "perhaps this might first be discussed out of earshot of the boy. It is merely speculation which fuels our conversation, after all."

England frowned.

"I hope you do not intend to pick my brains, gentlemen," he said coolly. "You may rest assured that I know no more than you do. My government does not concern itself much with my interests or desires, you may be certain."

Adams shook his head.

"That we know," he said sharply. "It is simply that the rumours are beginning to grow persistent and we must be prepared for the cost should they prove to be true."

"The concept of the colonies becoming a self-governing nation is not one that is far-fetched," Franklin added, "and, indeed, is likely the due course of events for the future – but for Great Britain to simply pull back now and cut all military, financial and trading support to the colonies, leaving them without a unified government or parliamentary model, is utterly disparaging. That kind of change is something which oppressed peoples fight for; freedom cannot be forced before its time. The colonies will collapse if they are simply cut off in a bid to save money."

"It sounds preposterous," Jefferson said quietly, "but the result of such a thing would be revolution."

—

England and France had carried America to bed between them, for he was too heavy for England to lift on his own. He stirred as he was gently sat down on the sheets and England started to quickly and efficiently undress him, working at buttons and buckles to unfasten all of his layers.

"France, fetch me his nightgown," England said blandly, deeply invested in dealing with America and not much else.

France got it from the hook and tossed it onto the bed, watching England get the exhausted teenager ready to sleep. There was nothing sexual in the way that he stripped him, instead something far more maternal in his actions, the gentle way he removed his clothing with little mutterings of things like "Good lad" when America drowsily helped by lifting his arms and the like. He hadn't said much on the way upstairs, no doubt mulling anxiously over what Franklin, Jefferson and Adams had said; for what between himself and France seemed to be little more than gossip appeared more credible and worrisome from the mouths of men whose job it was to concern themselves with such things.

It was perfectly understandable that England was terrified that he and America were going to be separated – and especially now.

Tugging down America's nightshirt and adjusting it, England put the finishing touch to his preparations and reached up to pull the ribbon of the boy's golden hair, allowing it to spill over his shoulders, bright and glowing in the flicker of the bedside candle. His legs folded beneath him, America smiled sleepily and put his hands on his stomach, gently tracing the curve of it through his nightgown. England smiled at him in return, tenderly touching his face.

France went to the door, still watching them. America always had had a truly massive amount of power over England; all he had to do was smile prettily and England practically fell at his feet in worship.

"Angleterre," France called gently. "Come. We must go back down. There are things of importance to discuss."

"I know," England replied, not looking at him. "I will be there shortly." Pulling back the covers, he steered America towards the mattress and tucked him in, making sure he was comfortable and kissing him goodnight. "I will be up soon," he promised, "so that you will not be lonely. Goodnight and pleasant dreams, poppet."

America murmured something barely audible as England walked away from the bed; he turned back on hearing it and France grabbed his wrist to hold him where he was.

"Come on," he said, tugging England towards the door. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can be back up here to snuggle up with your little pet."

England smirked at him as he closed the bedroom door behind him.

"Are you jealous, France?" he teased.

France rolled his eyes.

"Of course not."

"Liar." England's smile softened and he leaned up to close the minimal height difference between them and give France a small, chaste kiss on the mouth. "Anyway, thank you for tonight. You always take good care of me, I have to admit."

France pinched his nose.

"Anything for my petit lapin."

England shook his head free with a sigh.

"Well," he said, slipping his hand into France's as they descended the stairs, "your petit lapin has been meaning to mention all night that you look wonderful."

"England!" With an enviable ease given his swelling size, America came scampering nimbly back to him to tug insistently on his arm. "England, there are ships!"

"Ships?" England frowned at him. "Where?"

"Pulling into port," America said urgently. "Right now – I can see them coming into the harbour. Come and look!"

Adjusting his grasp on the paper-wrapped loaf of bread, England allowed America to pull him away from the tailor's window and lead him across the bustling town square to the highest edge of Boston where the small township overlooked the busy harbour. He felt America's small hand hot in his as they stopped to look down at it in silence.

True enough, there were three large brigs all docking in Boston Harbor, their flags fluttering valiantly in the clear breeze. They were Union Jacks – but these were not war-ships, nor were they trading vessels. This was a delivery. The rumours were no longer rumours, the fears no longer mere speculation, and England knew exactly what their cargo was.

The Americans did not, of course – and neither did America himself. Nonetheless, he huddled instinctively closer to England, clutching possessively at his bump of almost seven months.

"I do not want them here," he said rather fiercely. "I do not want what they intend to force upon us."

England hugged him close, watching the first of the ships being securely tied to the dock by a dozen unsuspecting men.

"Neither do I," he replied helplessly.

OH. MY. First of all, confession time regarding length. So this fic has five "segments", all set in a different period of this alternate version of history (though all connected by the plot!), and originally I just wanted to post the five segments as five chapters BUT... I was defeated by my own deadline (I wanted to post this chapter today because of its 4th of July-ish connotations) and couldn't get it all done in time because I was dumb and only gave myself about a week to write it. This is more or less half (maaaaybe a little more) and it's loooong, I apologise, haha. SO, in a way, I'm actually glad I was beaten out by my deadline because this thing would have ended up being ridiculously long for just one chapter had I managed to get it all done. Instead I'm going to split each segment in half again so that the whole thing will actually have ten "chapters", two each per section under the same title, just to make it easier for me to write AND to make it easier on your eyes!

Speaking of chapter titles, they come (or will come) from the song The Sun Is Burning by The Dubliners.

So, um, yeah, there are some issues going on in here! All will eventually be explained and all are relevant to the plot/character development. I really did want to try some new things with this fic regarding the relationships between the inhuman nations and their citizens. Usually I write England (for example) as having quite a good rapport with his people/leaders/government, but in this story he has a difficult time dealing with humans in general (...and also poor Canada). He has symptoms of claustrophobia, which will be returned to and which also account for his extreme preoccupation with the way he is laced into his clothing. France and Canada also have some stuff going on with them and as for America... I've barely started playing with him yet. :3

Due to the alternate timeline, Franklin, Jefferson and Adams all go by the wrong titles here: Franklin was Minister to France (not ambassador) only after the American Revolution took place, while Jefferson and Adams were delegates of Virginia and Massachusetts, not governors. Additionally, the reason for the revolution is somewhat... reversed. o.O

...Well, lastly, I just have to say that I always end up writing exactly one mpreg fic for each fandom I jump ship to and here is my Hetalia one. Hope you like it so far!

Oh, and to all American readers, Happy 4th July!

...We're not crying. Much. T.T

RobinRocks

xXx

P.S: My sincerest apologies if there are a lot of mistakes. I proof-read but I'm tired and probably missed a boatload of errors despite my best efforts...