Okay.

Okay I'm sorry. The latest chapter for Brick in the Wall is taking waaaaayyyy longer than I expected because I'm going to finish it all in one go!

That's right, people. CHAPTER 5 WILL BE THE LAST CHAPTER. PERIOD.

But good news: It'll be like, 30 pages or so long haha. Savor the flavor.

Anyway, this is a prompt request I received from "I am the Queen":

A UK/US or World/US, in which someone a UN meeting points out the fact that Alfred has 50 children and the question of the other parent(s?) arises. Humorous and someone has to jokingly call Alfred a whore and have Arthur react violently. Very, very violently.

Unfortunately, I...I'm not so good with humor, if you hadn't guessed it. So I made it dark and I'M SORRY UGH SORRY. Still got the point around.

And sorry, no lemon. It just...It didn't work. I'm sorry about that too. ORZ

I just wanted to write this because it finally came to me today and I just BELTED IT OUT, even though I wanted to do it after I finished chapter 5. oh well haha. It'll keep you guys busy.

ANYWAY URRGH HERE YOU GO.

----

States were never a mistake for America.

Sure, some of them weren't as planned as he would have liked, and some were given to him even without consent, but when he held that baby in his arms for the first time, and it cried and cried and every single time, he whispered the same thing into its little ear: hello there, little one, welcome to the New World.

No, they were never mistakes, never inconveniences.

It was hard sometimes. His house had always seemed so large and empty, from those days when he'd await his guardian's return, and the shadows would crawl along the planked walls like demons after his soul and all he had to save himself were the wool blankets England left behind that still smelled like London, and he'd hide and pray to God and Jesus and Mary that they wouldn't catch him.

But then, England had given him independence for a price he was almost unwilling to pay. And on July 4th 1776, he told England to his face the very thing he'd been meaning to tell him ever since he'd forced those taxes on him those years ago, with that pit of fire twisting fiercely in his stomach: I am not a child.

At least, that's what he had told himself.

England wasn't so keen on the idea of leaving. So he fought back.

And the war raged for years, and before bed every night, America would count and dress his wounds, kiss the cross around his neck, and try to sleep despite the cold tears making his face wet and the ripping in his throat with each unwanted sob. He hadn't wanted this.

The treaty came too late for America's taste. Had he really needed to fight for that long? But whatever the case, he remembered when John Adams had burst into his house with a huge happy grin on his soft cheeks, waving the paper that would end the war. And he took him into his arms like any father would his son, and embraced him with all his heart, because he was so very proud of America.

He'd cried like a child then, too.

March 18th 1787, England stood on his docks with roses.

"You won't forgive me. I know this."

America was too young. He wouldn't admit it for years, decades even, but he knew. It was so easy to cry, those days, at that age. His pride never had problems with him crying under his sheets, louder than the cheers for sovereignty. And his pride didn't stop him at that moment either, face to face with his father, his brother, his everything. He ran like he had those years ago when he was no taller than England's knee, stumbling on clumsy fowl legs and crying like he had no reason to live.

Those arms had been open for him the whole time.

It wasn't so strange to kiss him when he wasn't his father anymore. It seemed fitting; the way England's arms encircled him with arms like the wings of the powerful and beautiful bald eagle, protective and dangerous at the same time. The roses fell to the rotted planks of the ship dock, and slipped in between the cracks to grace the gloomy navy water with red speckles as an act of love and apology.

"You're wrong."

Having sex wasn't so strange to him either. He'd undergone normal human growth despite being an immortal nation, and he knew of puberty. He knew what to do, and how it was supposed to feel, but he never thought it would be so absolutely incredible, forceful. England whispered his apologies and his love into his ears with each piston of his hips, each jerk of his hand, and America had melted into goo.

What he hadn't expected was the aftermath.

He had read books. England had made sure of it, in his adolescence. But everything he had ever learned was backwards.

His stomach extended under his chest, too high for it to be just fat. He had a dim wonderment, and stayed in his little hollow, fearful of his comrades' judgment. He'd sit by the window and watch Jamestown go about their usual business, unknowing of their nation's inner turmoil.

He'd seen the women around town.

The second time England visited, with new roses, bigger and better, he immediately discarded them on the ground as he had the first, dropping to his knees at the sight of America.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

America pressed his hands into England's messy blonde hair as the man hugged him around his large middle. He promised he wouldn't cry when he saw England. He promised he wouldn't show how young he was, how absolutely terrified he had been those months of waiting for England to come back and tell him why he was this way. But how could he not, when he was too little for adult matters like this?

"What do I do? Arthur, what do I do?"

He remembered the look the Englishman had given him, looking up from beyond his distended belly and eyeing him with bright emeralds that shone with just as much fright as America was feeling.

"Be brave."

So he was.

On December 7th 1787, Delaware was born.

England had watched him constantly, that day. He had sat at his bedside and stared with half-lidded eyes at him, like he was lost and his brain was shut off. America hadn't minded. He stared right back, lying on his side with his son tucked safely between them both. They didn't say anything to each other, and that was just fine. The silence made America warm, happy, made him smile, and when England would take him by the hand, it'd get all the better.

"Why am I still like this?" was what he'd asked the day after, his stomach just as large as it had been when the baby had been inside. England wasn't so sure.

"Just wait."

December 12th was the day Pennsylvania was born.

England had held his hand through it all. He'd told him that twins weren't that far apart. But he was a nation, so it had to be different. He was getting tired.

December 18th, and New Jersey was born.

"Make it stop."

England had kissed him on the cheek in apology. He was full of them, in those days.

"I'm sorry."

Neither of them had planned for all of them. Hell, they hadn't even planned for the one. He couldn't blame England; he could only blame himself for wanting sovereignty for his country, his states.

The following years, he and England had 14 more. Some were days apart, and some were years, depending on when they both were overcome with the need to devour each other with desire. He remembered Virginia being the hardest of them all, and he promised he wouldn't play favorites, but those big green eyes always shone with pure adoration and a feistiness that only he could have contributed to, and he knew she would be the golden child. North and South Carolina were tricky, because they were twins, yet had a six-month age difference. And when it came down to technicalities, America wasn't sure what was going on.

Eventually, it slowed down until there was nothing left.

"I have no more land to give you," England had told him, a mix of relief and sadness, darkness outlining each word. He loved all his sons and daughters, and thought he'd never have his own children. Yet he wasn't sure on America's take, because he was so young, still a child, even though he was raising 17 on his own. He had forced America to take his seed, practically, forced him to have his children.

America had kept his lips shut for a long moment at that. Ohio gurgled against his chest, little hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt.

"...Francis has the rest of it, doesn't he?"

England wanted to nod, but his furiousness overtook him. America would no longer be entirely his. Even though America had become his own nation, with his own laws and culture and people, he was still England's, heart and soul.

It was like he was giving him away.

"I have to do this," America had murmured. "...I can't stay in the dark any longer, and I won't be threatened by other nations in my land."

England, as much as it pained him, understood exactly how he felt.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," England had reassured, pressing one hand to America's knee and the other to the sweet blonde head of his last son. "You had to grow up someday." I never wanted to admit it.

"Don't say that," America laughed, the noise sordid and tinted mechanical. "I'll never be done growing up."

"Didn't you want me to acknowledge you as an adult? Isn't that why you wanted that bloody revolution?"

America looked a little hurt, but hid it all in a grin. "I'm not a child anymore. But that doesn't mean I'm all grown up. You aren't either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"When you live forever," America whispered, watching his baby gnaw on his shirt, "You're never done learning."

"Since when are you philosophical?"

"Me and Benjamin had some good conversations back in the day."

They had laughed, but it was bitter.

"I am tired of this war," France had told him. "I am done of this mess."

"You can't throw war away," America had told him right back.

"I will give you my land. Is that what you want?"

America hesitated, and France had smiled.

"I know how you and Angleterre go about with states. Your people want western expansion, oui?"

"...Are you threatening me?"

"Cheri, I know what you want, you know what you want, everyone knows what you want. And I can give it to you. What more is there to think about?"

England, he thought.

"I am tired of this settlement, and my country is a lot of trouble right now. I have no more time to play silly games away from home."

Silly games?

"Take me seriously," America hissed. "I am not your toy."

"Oui, oui, you are a nation now." France sighed thoughtfully. "But you'd like to be a bigger nation, right?"

America thought of all the children he had left at his home. Delaware was getting taller every day, and Virginia was getting smarter with her studies, and wouldn't they realize that these new brothers and sisters weren't from daddy?

"Yes," America answered. "I want to be a great nation."

France smiled, and held out his hand.

America could trust him again. He'd trusted him with his help in the revolution, even though it had turned out worse with the fighting. France had been there to support him with his own people and supplies and encouragement.

And that's why he took his hand, seduced into a temporary settlement tent, without any doubts in his mind.

April 30th 1812 was Louisiana's birthday.

He had remembered England's face when he'd shown up that day. France was nowhere to be found, but that was okay.

"He shouldn't do this to you," he'd said, leaning over his bedside with anger festering in his green, green eyes. "You don't deserve it."

America smiled, but didn't say anything.

France had given America the Louisiana Purchase, and with it, many more states. Each had those riveting blue eyes the two shared so closely, and one could never tell if those were France's eyes on Illinois, or America's. His daughters had the silky hair of the Frenchman: always.

Then there was Spain.

Spain had been a mutual contributor. He had little to chastise or criticize America about, and he was there for a moment and gone the next, leaving behind his territories for America to handle just like France had.

No wonder they were best friends.

Spain smiled a lot.

America liked that.

But when America overstepped his boundaries, his invisible boundaries, there were no more smiles.

"You will not steal Texas from me, nino."

As if he had actually wanted his state.

America was furious at that point. How dare he tell him how to care for his own children when he had Florida alone amongst his blonde-haired blue-eyed siblings asking "Why am I different?" and America couldn't answer.

"Texas is mine, and will always be mine."

The Alamo was difficult for America. It had never been so heartbreaking, for so many people to die at the same place, all for the same reason: to protect his state. People were dying left and right, and all he could do was watch and wait to see who would be the last to hold his son in his arms: Him, or Spain?

He knew he would win. He just knew it. His people had volunteered so enthusiastically; it was hard not to let the emotion swell in his heart. And it had paid off.

Texas was his.

Afterwards, he couldn't see as clearly as he had before. He was forced to take up eyewear.

"Look at what I do for you, baby." He had whispered to the infant against his chest whining lightly in his ear. "I'm going to protect you from all the bad things."

No I won't. It was the 1860's. He remembered.

"I'm a hundred years your superior," Delaware had cried. That rifle in his hand wasn't just a bluff. "You will do as I say."

The rifles in the hands of his twin Carolinas weren't either. "No, big brother. We won't."

America didn't want to choose sides, not when they were all his children and he never loved any of them less. He wished he could stop it.

But the subject was touchy, always had been. Lincoln was a history maker indeed, and he hadn't even outlawed slavery or anything. But just speaking unpleasantly towards it was enough for the south.

America watched, with hands clenched over his trembling stomach, as they proceeded to kill each other.

As soon as it started, he had to find somewhere to hide, somewhere to throw up, because his baby didn't want this either, and his stomach protested. The weight of the armies marching over his land dragged him down to the ground, down into the earth, and he couldn't possibly ever get up.

He was only half the country he used to be.

He remembered finding the Confederacy at his doorstep. He had a cool demeanor, a sick smile, and all the charm of a serpent.

"Sorry this had to happen, friend. We're just too different to be one country."

Sick. He was sick.

He couldn't remember a time when he had been that ill. He was overcome with fever, of wounds that would pop up every now and then. He could tell who was winning at all times, even if he didn't want to. His skin would open and blood would pour and pour and he thought it'd never stop.

"What do you want? What do you aim to do?"

"I just want to watch you squirm."

He was doing a fine job.

War raged. There wasn't anything he could say to his two presidents to make them stop. America was practically dead in the eyes of Davis.

"He's my boss," the Confederacy had laughed, "not yours!"

Kansas was born amongst blood and death.

He wasn't sure if she'd make it through the night. She was weak and dying and oh god I can't do this anymore. Her land had been burnt and destroyed before she had even been born, and it had only gotten more so in her creation. America couldn't sleep that night. He stared at her little chest, barely rising and falling, with tears that lasted beyond the morning.

"I'm so sorry."

She could barely breathe, much less respond.

Confederacy had been sitting in the corner of the room, smiling. Smiling. Always smiling.

Time went on, and the betrayal festered in his lonely mind, because his children never visited him, and all he had was his mirror image, snide and cruel and terrible. He had West Virginia and Nevada. The Union was gaining ground.

Kansas cried all the time. She was always in pain, and he knew, because he'd have to bandage those burns and cuts every day, and he was there to kiss them better, but what good was a placebo when she didn't even understand what was happening?

"Mama loves you. Mama loves you so much."

A year after Nevada, Lincoln was dead: shot in the head.

Was that what his country was coming to, killing their own leaders in cold blood? Hadn't his founding fathers taught his people something about justice and reason? But Johnson had promised him, that day when he showed up on his doorstep to tell him of his boss's tragic demise, taking his hand in his with an affection he could only describe as pure and honest, that he would save him. He would save this beautiful country.

Then one day, he woke up to a knock.

His southern half was throbbing, his legs trembling. Hell, his everything was trembling. First, he turned to the babies curled against him on his bed: they were just fine. Then, he turned to the corner where Confederacy liked to watch him and remind him that he wasn't who he used to be, or who he thought he was.

But he was gone.

A knock at his door reminded him just what had woke him from his nightmares, and he hesitantly removed himself from his children to stand on clumsy tired legs. No one had visited him since Johnson, and he could only assume it would be Johnson.

He answered the door to his country.

All his children, or at least the ones who were able to walk and talk and carry rifles into battle, stared up at him with scratches marring their sweet young cheeks and blood on their everything.

He should have been able to scold them like the children they were, coming home with dirty clothes and leaving muddy footprints in the carpet. But he saw South Carolina draped onto Delaware as her only support, and her brother kissing her dirty blood-soaked hair with a smile stained with relief. His southern states cried tears that smudged the mud on their faces, and his northern states looked just as beaten, tired and hopeful smiles amongst the sadness, like children asking for kindhearted forgiveness.

"Mama," they called.

America had waited years for this moment, and he wasn't going to waste any more time.

He opened his arms, and he needn't say anything, because they rushed into them with a thankful sob that the entire nation could hear, all his people and everyone in the world, even. He didn't apologize for misguiding them, and he didn't forgive them for their betrayal; he was just happy to have his babies back.

They were his, no matter who credited the other half of their creation.

They were his.

----

July 4th, 1958

----

"Should...Should you really be hosting this party in your...condition?"

America laughed and handed his brother a glass of champagne. He himself was sticking to sparkling cider. England stood beside him, watching them curiously.

"Mattie, you worry too much! I can have a little fun on my birthday, right?"

Canada had to nod and smile, swinging his arm around to embrace his brother lightly, mindful of the large bump between them. "Yeah...Happy birthday."

"Thanks, bro! What did ya get me?"

The Canadian rolled his eyes, but disappeared to reappear with a big red box tied up with a big white ribbon. He watched America's eyes sparkle like the stars on his flag.

"Wow, Mattie!"

He tore at it viciously, strips of paper littering the floor, and when the lid popped off, he stared at the gift for a long silent moment.

"...Are you trying to turn my kid into you or something?"

Canada should have been offended, but the honest-to-god smile on his brother's lips made his resolve crumble, and when he pulled that giant stuffed bear out of that box and hugged it with that happy gleam in his eyes directed right at him, Canada could barely breathe.

"Mattie," he whispered happily, leaning forward to rest his head on his shoulder. "Thank you."

England watched the brothers embrace and laugh into each other's ear, swishing the champagne in his glass. He surveyed the grand dining hall, taking note of each and every nation socializing with one another, laughing, gossiping, being chummy etc.

England frowned.

"Get that look off your face, old man!"

America grinned up at him, and he became flustered. "I don't know what look-"

"You know." America kissed him softly along his jaw, still clutching to the big white bear Canada had given him. England's fingers twitched, but kept his hands to himself. "It's that look that old men have when they yell at kids to get off his lawn."

England scoffed loudly, and it earned him another kiss and a sweet laugh.

"Thank you for coming to my birthday," he said. "I know you don't like today."

"You think so little of me," he replied over the lip of his shining glass. He promised himself he wouldn't get smashed tonight...Unless America wanted him to. "It's been nearly 200 years. That's plenty of time to 'forgive and forget', as you say."

America was full of smiles that evening, and he hoped to keep it that way.

There was an accumulation of gifts in the corner of the large party room, stacked high with ribbons and bows and bright colors. Some were for America, but most were for the bump of his stomach. "I don't mind," America had told him, hand rubbing over the thin fabric of his shirt, "I don't need anything else."

When America said things like that, with that beautiful maternal glow, it made him fall in love all over again.

Delaware wanted to be out socializing, he knew. He could see it in the way his knee bounced in anxiety, and Arizona found it hilarious to ride upon. He watched the crowd of nations talk loudly, laugh even louder, and he wanted to do that too. His eyes were stuck to Ireland, having so much of an influence on him (being his uncle and all), and he wanted so badly to catch up.

"Who put you on babysitting duty, my boy?"

Delaware turned bright green eyes to his father in surprise before looking down at the giggling Arizona, playing with her curled hair. "New York...But I don't mind! Really! He's a much better talker than me anyway..."

"That's no reason," England laughed, taking hold of Arizona and putting her to his chest. "Go on. Have fun."

"Thanks, dad!" and with a quick hug, raced off before Ireland could hit the waiter up for another Guinness.

His children visited him one by one, though the Carolinas stuck together at the hip, sitting with him for a moment or two before making their way back to the party, picking up on nations of their influence rather than the one that founded them. It didn't bother him as much as he thought it would, because America was a land of opportunity, and his cultures were so mixed up he was surprised America wasn't as confused as he was.

"Hey, daddy."

His daughter leaned over to kiss the top of his head, stroking his ear affectionately before seating herself with crossed knees and her hands fixing her long blonde hair. England couldn't help but smile.

"What does your mum think about the way you dress?"

"Oh please," he huffed with a light tone, fixing her more-than-adequate cleavage in her red evening dress. "I'm a grown-up, daddy. I can dress myself."

They were sitting so close; Arizona took the initiative and hopped into Virginia's lap. "Big sister, you never see me anymore!"

Instead of being disgusted like England would have expected her to be, at least in her current phase, she pulled Arizona to her and embraced her softly. "Sorry, sweetheart. I live a long ways away, ya know?"

Arizona nodded all the while pouting, playing with her curls again. "Ya, I know. You could call me, though!"

He watched the girls play about, Virginia flipping her hands through her little sister's lengthy brown curls and talking animatedly about silly things, more so for Arizona's benefit he presumed.

And then his eyes turned to America, who was all of a sudden frowns.

England frowned with him.

He watched France make his way through the crowd of guests, wine glass in hand and his sneaky smile in place and England just knew he was itching to start something.

Oh no. Not tonight.

"Alfred," he purred, his fingers curling in his blonde hair. "You must forgive me, I have spent all my personal budget on Matthieu's birthday, and have had no time to find you the perfect gift!"

America glanced over at Canada, who blushed and looked to the ground in apology. He sighed lightly. "That's alright, Francis. Just so long as you're here."

"Oh yes! I've come to see my babies all grown up!"

Most of them don't even know who you are, England wanted to snap, and from the look on America's face, he wanted to do the same.

"Papa!"

The young woman had to pick up her train so she could run to the man smiling down at her. Her pastel green dress fluttered as she jumped into his arms. France hugged her tightly, spinning her about on his toes. "Mon chéri! You have gotten so big!"

Louisiana cooed against her father, hoping to get in a little more of his time, but was quickly disappointed.

"Mon fille, please excuse me, but I must speak with your mama for just a bit. Wait for me, oui?"

England winced at the heartbreak on her pretty little face. She hadn't seen him in years, decades, and a century even. But she nodded solemnly, her smile as false as ever, and walked shakily back into the faceless crowds.

It made England sick.

"What is it you want to discuss?" America's eyes were hollowed with suspicion, dim with hesitation. England had learned of America's habit of taping his toes to the floor when he wasn't sure of something, and when pregnant, he'd pinch the hem of his shirt all around the front. He found it a little endearing. But beside the point...

"Oui, oui..." he hummed, "I was wondering about your predicament."

"...Predicament?" America's eyes were burning now.

"Your baby, cheri." His eyes dipped down to it and back up, a deadly poison in his ocean eyes. "Whose is it?"

America hesitated, biting his lip. He hadn't planned on telling anyone until the statehood document was signed, and that wouldn't be for three more days.

"You haven't told anyone, oui?"

America didn't want to acknowledge it, so he left the question be. France smiled.

"Then this is a guessing game."

England wanted to step in and destroy France like he had all those other times, but this was America's battle, and his personal life, and if he didn't want England to know, he definitely didn't want anyone else to.

"Let's start with Angleterre. Was it Rosbif? How many children have you had with him, seventeen, was it? Have you forgotten why we celebrate today? He treated you wrongly and yet you still ran to him like a desperate teenage slut."

Virginia was watching now. Her blue eyes twitched a little.

America stood his ground, but he grit his teeth all the same. "No...It wasn't Arthur."

"Ah," France nodded, sipping his wine again. He couldn't blame his ill behavior on drunkenness, because the night had just begun. "You're right. You like to switch it up, oui?"

America didn't answer, but the coals in his eyes were scorching.

"How about Spain? His last was Arizona, correct? It's been such a long time since then. But he is the country of passion; I know this, so maybe he took pity on your lack of child, oui? Or maybe this child is payment for Texas?"

It stung. But America took another deep breath.

"No. It wasn't Antonio."

France put a forefinger and thumb to his stubbly chin and looked to the ceiling, ignoring the growing numbers of stares toward himself and the trembling American target of his barrage. "You have no more room in your contiguous states...Could it be your Alaskan territory? Are you finally making that a state, after how long, a hundred years?"

England watched America's controlled (if a bit shakily) demeanor vanish and be replaced by horror and defeat.

"I am right aren't I?"

America looked down to the ground, his hand fisted at his side angrily. He didn't answer.

"Oh," France chirped, sudden realization hitting him with a wide grin and a chipper attitude. "Then that means..."

America let out a small choking noise, similar to a sob, and that was the end of that.

"The father is Russia! Tres bien, Alfred, opening your legs to the enemy."

A fist came flying into his face, and like hell was he going to stop it. England felt satisfaction in the crunching noise, of not only France's cheekbone, but undoubtedly one or two of his own knuckles. The Frenchman skid across the floor, his wine spilling on the hardwood floor and the glass shattering the crowds loud rumble.

America's knees were wobbly, and Canada took him into his arms quickly just in case he felt faint. England met his eyes, those hurt blue eyes, and he would make sure France paid.

"You," he hissed lowly, stepping closer to the horizontal nation on the floor, "You are a disgrace."

"Non, non, Angleterre," he hissed right back after spewing the blood and teeth from his mouth, "It is you. Think of all the people who have been in that thing. And you aren't even father to half of the children you call your own. He's a low-class whore."

There was but a tense moment before England jumped the man, landing with all the bodily force he could muster onto his chest before raising his uninjured hand up and using the momentum to crush more bones in the Frenchman's face. He was oblivious to the cries around him, for him to stop, daddy, stop and the horrified noises of unknowing guests. All he heard was the blood coursing in his ears, the pumping of his immortal heart, and the idea of his son, his brother, his lover, his Alfred being a whore.

Fists rained like spring showers until someone, he didn't know who, pulled him kicking and screaming from the other nation, who had been unconscious for most of his torture. There was red stickiness on his fingers, on his face, but he didn't bother with it. He was seeing red anyway.

"Daddy," one of his daughters whispered in the terrified silence of the room. He huffed in more air, as if he'd never breathed in his life, and tried to get a hold of himself, but it wasn't going as smoothly as he'd planned.

"Sorry guys," he heard America gulp out, his voice just as unstable as his body, "Maybe next year."

His children surrounded him. He knew it was them by the tones of their voices, the feel of their little hands that he had held through all their childhood, the smell of the New World he was so proud of.

"Daddy, you're so stupid."

He had the ability to nod, at least, in his less-than-there state of mind.

"I'm sorry I ruined your birthday," he admitted with difficulty after all the guests were ushered off and Canada was busy dialing for paramedics. America rubbed the bulge beneath his shirt and faltered with an awkward smile.

"It's alright...And that was really great of you, ya know, no matter how ridiculously dumb."

America finally made his way over to the Englishman, wiping off some of the blood from his cheek to kiss it.

"I like how I'll always be yours no matter how many states I have."

"I like it too."

Normal children would have found the moment disgusting and strange, but they weren't normal children, much less children anymore either. They were adults, ran their own local governments, for goodness' sake, and had their very own cultures. And they understood their mother's situation better than anyone else, maybe even England as well. No one was going to make a difference between the relationship between that man and his children.

They embraced tightly, with America and England huddled into the center, to form a warm circle of all of the children, England's and Spain's and France's alike, and that didn't mean anything to anyone. They basked in it, because this is what they had created, directly or otherwise, and they were proud of it.

Canada watched silently as his father was carried away, ignored by the huge family curled into each other, and let himself laugh a little.

He'd probably never understand anything about his brother.

"Come 'ere, Mattie! I need to love you too!"

Okay so maybe a few things. He was a simple man, after all.

"When are you going to grow up, Alfred?"

A little blonde hair poked up above the crowd of states, and with it the shining face of his brother and the unusually cheerful smile from the British nation. That was his family too.

"Never!"

---

Ugh. rushed ending is rushed.

Do I really have to do notes? It's late and I'm tired haha. Here's the gist of it:

Treaty of Paris = 1783, officially ended the war between America and Britain.

Louisiana Purchase = 15 million bucks for a chunk of the midwest.

The Alamo = Mexican-American war 1846-48, lots of people died fighting for Texas

Civil War = Derp. South vs. North, North pwns. barely.

Jefferson Davis = The one and only president of the Confederate United States, seeing as it only lasted from 1861-1865

Andrew Johnson = Followed into presidency after Lincoln was assassinated, termed Reconstruction Era in America, rebuilding after the war.

Bleeding Kansas = Before it became a state, violence ravaged the territory due to it's inconclusive decision to either be a slave state or free state. A lot of the land was burned, and many civilians were killed.

Rosbif = Common French racial term for British people

Alaska = The territory was actually given to America by Russia in 1842, but only in January 1959 did it finally become a state.

Anyway...

Still looking for prompts guys!

So keep requesting!

Oh and lol review also~