(in)dependence


Drug dealing was in the family genes and Canada realized he was following nicely in England's footsteps. Canada and America's addiction to oil.

Canada cannot remember America's first time, probably because he wasn't there, but he does remember the first time America drinks something of his—

"Here," Canada says, and without preamble, he hands over the packaged bottle of crude petroleum. He'd gone to great care in wrapping it—fancy ribbons and gold trimmings, because that was important, that was the difference between cheap beer and fancy wine from the heart of Napa Valley. (Well, not really, he realizes one day after having downed one of America's brews. Sometimes there was more than just the outer covering.)

He watches as America unwraps it carefully, watches as America uncorks the bottle and pours himself a drink.

Then he pours some into Canada's glass, and Canada understands.

("It's the sacrifice you have to make," England had said, "if you want to do this properly. You have to, at least for a while, break the golden rules and do the same as your customer. They want assurance of its quality, they need to see you enjoy it before they can, so you indulge them.")

Canada downs his glass, even though he feels slightly sick with the thick liquid in his throat. The first time is never pleasant, he tells himself, it's an acquired taste, always acquired, and maybe (if he's lucky) he won't acquire it at all.

He drinks and he wonders—how much opium did England take to assure China of its quality?

Sometimes the family portrait on his mantle is his only connection to reality, his only evidence that yes, he exists. America gave it to him some years after the Peace Arch was built, and Canada looks at it at least once a day, trying to remember his younger years, trying to remember what went wrong along the way.

(Except it'd been wrong since the beginning, it'd been wrong since before he was born. Because drug dealing was in the family genes and Canada was only following nicely in England's footsteps.)

There's a thin crack in the portrait's glass case, a few millimeters below England's eye. Canada tells America that it was an accident, that he hadn't been careful in moving the glass frame, and that he's really, really sorry, but America seems to think it funny more than anything.

"It's kinda symbolic now, don't you think? Like some piece of high art," America says, pausing to cast the crack an admiring glance, "You know, if you take it to the markets with the right agent, I bet it could sell for millions."

Canada gives his brother a disapproving look and says, "I hope you realize that the symbolism is rather tasteless. Why rub it in England's face that you've left when it's clear you've been having the upper hand for the past five decades?"

"Oh, of course you would say that," America snorts, tracing the crack with his fingers, leaving a thick, greasy smear along the glass. There's a liquid leaking from his brother's nails and it drips carelessly across the glass, gathering trails of dust.

"I don't know why you insist that he'd get all hurt over this," America continued, "I mean, he had a whole damn empire to contend with - what was I to him anyway? Probably just thought of me as an annoying little rascal until I proved to him that I was much more than that." A pause, and then, "Wait, Matt, you didn't really, truly leave him until '82, did you?"

America shoots him an amused grin, but Canada only sees the drip-drip-drip of the grease that's free-falling from his brother's fingers, tracing circular patterns along the glass pane.

"You're mistaken," Canada says, "because I left in spirit a long time ago." And you may have left, but it's clear that you're far more attached to him than I ever was. Because, America, if you truly didn't care, why go to the effort to research our shared ancestry? Why not let it rot, let it sink into its appropriate crevice in the dirt floor we call Earth?

America doesn't hear him, because, as usual, he only hears the things he wants to hear.

And so Canada says no more, choosing to watch in silence as his brother runs his fingers along the crack. There is a slight tremor to America's wrists, and Canada feels an urge touch the scar that he knows is there, the angry mark that's peeking out from America's sleeve. Canada was the one who sewed it together, the wound on his brother's arm, and all that had been left afterwards was the scar. Whenever his brother invades his room under the pretense of a debilitating fear of ghosts, he brushes his hands against them, admiring the way they'd engraved themselves into America's skin, like patchwork, much like patchwork.

England's silhouette glares back at him through the broken glass, and Canada almost laughs.

It's haunting, that portrayal of England, and Canada remembers the afternoon they'd spent firing shots at a firing range. England had told them not to practice without supervision, but England had been gone for nearly a year, and they'd stopped caring. They probably would've gotten away scotch-free too, if it hadn't been for that one wayward shot—a single mistake that pierced the heart of England's favorite horse.

And now England was standing by their doorway, holding barely contained anger with every breath.

"Would either of you like to explain what happened?"

Canada realized that the only words that came to mind were French—je suis desolé, vraiment, vraiment desolé, mais—which would no doubt anger England further. He looked towards America—America made a face and let out a string of perfect English, the kind England would often praise him for, because this was the way a proper British colony should speak, because England didn't have time for a half-French bastard child that couldn't even handle his language, let alone his culture.

"It was accident!" America protested, "Seriously England, you can't condemn us for a mere accident! We didn't have control over the situation and, well—"

The door slammed behind England, and Canada almost jumped at the force of it all. When had England last been this angry? When you last spoke French...

"An accident?" England ground out, "an accident, and that's all you have to say for yourselves? The two of you could certainly have controlled yourselves and not touched the damn muskets, but did you listen? No, you just had to play with them while I wasn't here, and now look at what you've done!"

England paused, glancing back and forth between the two of them. Then he leaned in, eyes narrowed dangerously, and ground out, "Who fired it? Who fired that last shot?"

"We don't know for sure, I mean, we weren't even watching all that carefully, and—" America was fidgeting, waving his hands about.

"Don't lie to me, Alfred," England snapped, "One of you fired the shot, and I want to know who did it."

America glanced momentarily at Canada, as if deciding what to do, trying to figure out the right words—"Well, it wasn't my fault, I mean—"

England cuts him off, jumping to the conclusion America hadn't wanted to voice. "So you're saying Matthew did it? Matthew, did you fire the last shot?"

"Wait—I never said that—I—" America looks wildly at Canada, hoping his brother believes him, but Canada refuses to give him the benefit of doubt. (Because America knew, he knew goddamn well that he could get away with anything. He could lie about who's turn it was to do dishes, could eat two portions of dessert and leave Canada with the vegetables, because he knew he was the favored child, and that England would always believe him.)

"That's quite enough from you," England snaps, "Go to your room, Alfred. I want to speak with Matthew, and I no longer require your presence."

The first time America overdosed, Canada didn't find out about it until almost a week later. When Canada walked in (with that spare key from decades previous), America had been sitting on the floor of his house, wrapping his arms in rolls and rolls of gauze.

"What is that?" Canada asked, pointing to the track marks on his brother's arm. America had never explained exactly how he took his oil, but it was obvious now. And Canada supposed he needed to care about his clients—and America was his biggest customer. He couldn't allow his biggest customer to just die with no explanation, right? (England had said it best, as usual—"You want to hook them in, but not kill them. They need to be alive to ensure your continued survival. It's rather like being a parasite, though I'd prefer not to put it in such crude terms.")

"What is what?" America countered, moving his arms out of Canada's sight.

"Your arms, America." A pause, and then, "Listen, I'm worried about you. Five times a day—this can't be healthy. If you don't stop soon, you'll turn out like—like—"

Canada remembers the time England told him about China—and realizes that he doesn't know if he can live up to the footprints England has carved. Would America beg for his oil like China did his opium? What would it be like, to see a brother reduced to that? But this situation isn't the same, and Canada knows that, because America can fight, because oil, unlike opium, does not make one complacent. In fact, America has weapons and bombs and cruelty that rivals England of yesteryear; he can fight and is almost too willing to do so, so willing it's scary.

America glared at the floor, chewing on his lower lip.

He looks pitiable, and Canada realizes that he just can't help it—

"This is disgusting, you know that, right?" Canada looked at America's face (it was haunted, so hollow, so hollow), then his arms, and back to his face again. "Who in their right mind would—if they saw you right now—who in their right mind would want to touch you?"

America laughed, voice made by hoarse the thick substance staining his throat. "They all want to touch me, Canada. I'm the promised land, they all flock to me. They love me, Matt, they always have and always will."

The underlying challenge was there—they love me, Canada, but do they love you? Do they know who you are? Even if you're clean and beautiful and pristine and well-maintained, will they feel you at all when they touch you? They'll think they're touching air, and think nothing of it.

"Fine," he settled for whispering at last, "fine, take their love, America, I don't want it anyway."

Because their love corrupted, it hurt, it maimed, and why would he have need for such things?

"Pick a weapon," England says, voice flat.

"Je—mais, pourquoi—why?" Canada cringes, because he was using French again, and England was bound to be angrier still.

"Pick a weapon," England repeats harshly, and then he cannot help himself and adds, "Can you not follow simple orders? Or perhaps," he said, lips curling into a sneer, "Perhaps you cannot follow my speech? Am I speaking too fast for you?"

Canada hurriedly grabs a rifle, not trusting himself to respond properly. And if he couldn't respond properly, why speak at all? Better to be silent than risk wrath, right?

England leads him away, and they weave around in the maze-like mansion England had built for them, upstairs, downstairs, left, right, left, and they finally arrive in a small room at the end of a hallway. There's a rabbit in the room, sitting innocently in a cage, and Canada suddenly feels weak.

England gestures to the rabbit—America's pet rabbit—and says, "Show me. Show me how you shot and killed my horse."

"Wh-what? Mais—but—I can't, that's America's rabbit, and he would be so devastated—"

"Of course he would be, but his feelings do not concern us now, Matthew, just as my feelings did not concern the two of you when you went out shooting."

"I can't," he whispers, "I just can't..." Canada realizes later that he is crying, and a mixture of tears and snot stain his pale cheeks.

The expression on England's face doesn't change. "You can't? Or you won't?"

Canada tries to remember the difference between "can't" and "won't", tries to translate them to French in his mind, but it's not working, nothing's working. Can't or won't? Can't or won't? "I won't," he finally remembers, "I won't!" It was his brother's rabbit, and this was just wrong. Even if England was angry, they didn't need to feel what he felt to learn their lesson.

"No," England says, "you will," and in one swift motion he moves behind Canada, sliding his left arm over the boy's lower jaw, giving it a rough shove down. He digs his thumb into the soft tissue beneath Canada's tongue, and Canada screams, because he can taste the blood, the metallic aftertaste pooling in his mouth. England leans forward and whispers, "Speak for me, Canada, speak for me. En français."

Canada shudders, because why would England want to hear French? England had always expressed utmost contempt for the language, so how could he possibly want to hear it now? Canada doesn't understand, but the way England's fingers are digging into his gum—he has to make a decision quickly—or else England will—

"Je suis...je suis désolé...vraiment désolé...s'il vous plaît..." he manages, though his speech is garbled because England refuses to remove his hand from Canada's mouth. And he discovers that he is too afraid to resist further, to pull away, because what if England digs his fingers in more? It would hurt, and he couldn't, he just couldn't risk it.

"Oh, tu es vraiment désolé? Je ne vois pas tout ça dans tes yeux. Je vois un garçon stupide, un garçon qui ne sait rien." Canada's eyes widened—England, England was speaking French? It didn't matter that England was insulting him—because England was doing so in his language, because now England no longer had the upper hand every single time he opened his mouth.

Feeling emboldened, Canada begged again, words erupting shakily from his lips, "S'il vous plaît, Angleterre, s'il vous plaît..."

Then, without warning, England's fingers dig into his gums, burying themselves in a devious mixture of torn skin and blood, leaving his once-white teeth shining with a bright red sheen.

"Don't speak that filthy language around me, boy," England snarls, "He polluted you, Canada, he polluted you with that disgusting tongue of his." England neglected to mention that his precious English was tainted too, tainted with French, and that even before the Norman invasions, it had never been pure. (Because even if it's wrong to take out his frustrations with France on Canada, he can't help it, he just can't.)

"I should've done this from the beginning, I should've rooted out his filthy influence from your throat," England whispers, grabbing roughly at Canada's tongue. Canada makes a desperate noise at the next thing he sees—a blade, and it is poised not far from his mouth. Then England eases the knife between his lips and under his tongue (and Canada is suddenly too afraid to cry out, because what if he moves too much and—).

England smiles and says, "I'm going to give you a choice: shoot the rabbit or—"

"—or let me cleanse you."

England might as well have placed his own arms around the rifle and shot the rabbit, because he knows—he knows that Canada can't abandon what France gave to him. Even if France was the one who had abandoned him, he just can't...

Canada flinches as soon as the the bullet leaves the gun, flinches and then screams. Screams because the rabbit was unharmed—screams because the bullet had made its way into England's thigh, and England's falling, clutching his leg, blood gathering in large splatters on the carpet.

"Je suis...je suis désolé...vraiment désolé..." he mumbles, horrified at his own doing. He should be helping England, he should be finding gauze and bandages and something to clean up the wound with, but Canada backs away, hands hanging uselessly at his sides.

England growls, but he doesn't look any more angry than before. Instead, he's looking at Canada guardedly, as though having decided on something.

"Tomorrow," England says, looking surprisingly calm despite the copious amounts of blood, "Tomorrow you will come with me to Europe."

Canada wonders if that is where he will die.

(And in retrospect, Canada realizes, how wrong England was. He'd picked the wrong colony, because Alfred was much more European than he ever was, because Alfred got that gleam in his eye from fighting, from killing.

But then again, America had become the addict, and he the dealer, so perhaps England wasn't so off after all.)

"Hey," America says one night, standing in the doorway to Canada's house in Windsor. He's brought a trail of something through the yard, and Canada feels annoyance welling up in his mind.

"What do you want?" he grumbles.

"I...I need a bit more, tonight. Right now," America gave Canada a pained look and added, "Look Matt, I can't fucking sleep, alright? I need it now, 'cause I haven't slept at all for the last three days and it's driving me insane."

Canada just stares at him, silent.

"Goddamn it, Matt, did you hear me?" America places his hands on Canada's shoulders and he shakes them, desperation mounting. Canada notes wryly that his brother's arms look spastic, as though he has little to no control over them. "I need it now! I need to fucking sleep or else I won't be able to function again tomorrow and everyone will think it's because I'm an idiot when it's not true! Stop staring at me and—"

"Alfred," Canada snaps, pulling himself away from America's fumbling hands, "You knock on my door at three in the morning and expect some sort of rush delivery? I'm not at your every beck and call, I hope you're aware of that."

"That's not what I meant! I—"

"I'm doubling the usual price."

"What? But that's not fair Mattie! You can't just change prices whenever you want to. We had an agreement over exactly what the prices would be—that you weren't going to charge me more than you charge your people—don't you remember?"

"And aren't you rich, America? You, with the largest GDP in the world, the largest functioning economy, why are you begrudging me over a few measly dollars? What matters more to you, Alfred, your mental sanity and sleeping habits or a few extra bills in your pocket?"

America doesn't look at him when he pulls out the bills from his pocket.

It's a thick wad of yuan—and Canada chokes down his laughter. Because really, what difference did it make if America paid in yuan or dollars? Money was money. He would've preferred it if his brother could've exchanged them first, but he wasn't much of a complainer. England, he figured, did more than enough complaining for both of them.

The silhouette of America at his door is a familiar sight. His brother comes almost weekly now, and Canada wonders vaguely if China had ever felt this way towards England—this odd sense of security towards one's dealer. Some day, he tells himself, he'll work up the courage to ask.

There's blood on his brother's face again, mostly around his cheeks, and Canada looks down and sees—

America's arms. They're—

"Hey, Mattie," America says, "Can you—can you sew them?"

—they're dripping red. It's like someone had ran America's arm through a chainsaw, it's so—

"Sure," he says, and leads America into his living room. He finds his first aid kit in a drawer and pulls out the gauze, disinfectant, and a jar of oil. He sits down next to his brother and says, "Come on, let me see."

America holds out his arms, and Canada cringes at the sight of them. He's not scared of blood, he tells himself, but after that night with England there's always that momentary twinge, that fleeting jolt of nausea. He forces himself to calm down, because America needs his help and he can't run away now. He tugs at the flaccid piece of skin on America's torn arms, and watches as the skin peels away, revealing the mesh of torn veins below.

What the hell had America been doing?

He uncorks the bottle of oil and—

—and America suddenly pulls away, withdraws his hands with a horrified look lining his face.

"I don't fucking want that," America snaps, eyes cold and bitter and so goddamn ungrateful. Canada was sewing together his arm despite his misgivings about blood and America was glaring at him like he was the most vile creature in the world.

"You need it," Canada says, trying to ignore the intensity of his brother's gaze, "You know you need it, because if you don't take it, you'll lose your sense of self, your sense of security, your defense mechanisms against the world, your—"

"Well I don't fucking want it!" America spits out, disgusted. He slaps Canada's hands away and snarls, "Goddamn it Matthew, you knew, didn't you? You knew all along! You knew that if I tried to stop I'd go insane, I'd go fucking insane. I went to the doctor's and you know what they told me? That without it, my immune system wasn't working anymore, that I couldn't fucking do a thing about viral infections if I decided to go cold turkey. And you knew, you goddamn bastard, you knew and you watched me do it and you didn't give a shit!"

Finished with his tirade, America stumbles back, wrapping his own arms protectively around himself, covering his shirt with blood. He wouldn't let Matthew touch his arms, not today, not ever.

Canada remains silent, because what do you say to an accusation like that? He wishes he had England's gift for language, he wishes he had a way with words. Perhaps he could've comforted Alfred, whispered sweet nothings in his brother's ear.

Instead, he lifts the jar of oil and dumps it all over America's arms, watching as the petroleum sinks into the rotten depth of America's blood.

America screams.

And he digs his left hand into his right, clawing at the remnants of the oil, clawing at his last shreds of dignity. Then he finds something that vaguely looks like a vein and throttles it, screaming, "I'm going to make it fucking leave. It's not welcome, it's not fucking welcome!" But it's too late, it's always too late, because the oil had already seeped into his bloodstream, and no amount of rage could make it leave.

"Stop it," Canada mumbles, suddenly sick again because the blood—oh god there was so much blood. He grabs America's left arm and tries his best to pry it away from the right one, tries his best to contain America's thrashing, but his brother is too strong.

(Canada tries to remember that tomorrow he'll have to call someone to clean his carpet, because it's ruined again. He'd spent so much effort on installing that carpet, he'd even called an interior designer, and now—)

"Canada," America had said one night, voice thick with the drug, "do you remember that night?"

"What night?" Canada asked.

America walked into the room then and used his body weight to slam the door shut. There was a wild, wild look behind the glasses, and Canada wondered suddenly if he should be scared. Was this a side effect of petroleum?

"You really don't remember?" his brother ground out, "You killed my rabbit tonight, 234 years ago. And after all that time I spent begging England to keep him, and guess who kills him? Canada. And you were so innocent, right? No one would ever suspect cute, innocent Canada of a crime."

Canada froze. He'd never killed the rabbit, never, ever touched it. (Unless, he realized, unless England went back and murdered the damn thing himself.) And why hadn't America brought it up in the interim time? Two hundred and thirty-four goddamn years and his brother was just sitting there, stewing in silence? That wasn't America.

"I didn't do it..." he protested, feeling sick at the memory of that night. (Because somehow he was always stuck with overbearing bastards, generation after generation of them. Why couldn't he stand up to them, why was he so fucking pitiable?)

"Don't fucking deny it," America growled, "You and incessant your lying, your tales, your media—I know you did it—England told me. He said you were a better shot than I ever was, that it only took you one shot to nail his heart. He said I could never do that, because my hands were too unsteady. As if you could have a better shot than me—you don't even give a fuck about fighting! Peacekeeping, hah!"

England, Canada thought, fucking England. But then he understands why America never mentioned the matter, because he hadn't actually cared about the rabbit. He'd only really cared about being better than his brother, and to somehow hear from England that he couldn't shoot as well, would never be able to shoot as well—that was what had set him off. (And Canada wants to laugh, because this is his family, right? Because it's his brother there, jealous, pathetic Alfred, leaning on the door frame, looking like he's ready to tear the whole place down.)

"Alfred, why are you listening to England?" Canada asked, trying to remain calm, "Didn't you say, centuries ago, that you no longer needed him? And here you are, trusting his opinion as though it were fact."

"Who the fuck said I needed him? I don't, and I'll probably never need him. At least not in the same way he needs me. I don't know why he's so fucking hung up over me, but—"

"Good," Canada said simply, "then why believe what he says? Lying is England's favorite sport, and it's the only one he's ever really good at. He's got a way with words, because they're his words, because at the end of the day, we're only rehashing a language that he created."

America laughs then, and Canada decides he doesn't like his brother's laugh anymore. It's harsh now, having lost the innocent pitch of their memories, it's tainted with oil, wealth, and greed. "His language, huh?" America chortles, "His fucking precious language—he stuffed it down our throats and now he's jealous of us using it? I'm not sure if I care, Canada, I'm just not sure."

Canada suddenly feels a bitter energy rising within him, because America doesn't know what he's saying—because America was never force-fed the English language, America just accepted it, and there was no pain, no dirty looks, no mocking stares, nothing. America was fucking lucky and he's always complaining, always complaining—

"Besides," America continues, perfectly content to rub salt in the wound, "if you're so bitter about England, why is English still one of your official languages? Shit, you could be like me and have no official language. It's not like that stops my people from picking something to communicate with."

"But most of them choose English, don't they?"

"And so what? What's your point? Who cares what language they choose? Why are you so fucking fixated on England tonight? I mean—"

"You're the one who brought him up!"

They glare at each other, sullen and angry, and refuse to speak again for the night. Canada supposes it is for the better, because maybe the 69th parallel wouldn't be so peaceful if he had to listen to another word from Alfred, another tirade from a boy who'd gotten everything he wanted, everything—

England pulled him aside after a meeting one day, a look of concern on his face. The concern, as usual, was not for him, because he could "take care of himself, unlike that wayward brother of yours".

"Something is wrong with your brother," England said. And Canada wondered—if England knew the real reason, knew how he'd goaded America on—would he be proud? (But then again, England had changed too, England was no longer sailing the high seas, England had lost his sense of adventure and youth, and perhaps England would cringe—regret—)

"It's the oil, isn't it?" England asked, and he sounded weary. "He's got so much of it, but he just can't have enough, can he? He gave me a pitcher of it this morning—to pour over my pancakes, he said. And now look at what he's doing in the Middle East, what he's dragging us all into. It's insane, Canada, insane, and I—"

"You didn't have to go," Canada snapped, wondering why England was so angry when he willingly joined the war effort.

"Well, I didn't quite realize this was all he cared about when I joined! Your brother needs help, Canada, he really does. You live closest to him, so—"

"So what? Do you expect me to fight his battles for him? If he's addicted, horribly addicted as you say, perhaps you should take some initiative and find a rehab program for him. He is as much your brother as he is mine."

But perhaps, Canada thinks, perhaps England doesn't really consider America to be his brother, because America doesn't fit seamlessly into the family trade, because he'd become a victim instead of a dealer. Canada wonders if England realizes that his lifeline across the Atlantic has track marks across his arms, drinks oil for breakfast and—he's addicted, he's so fucking addicted it's not funny anymore.

His blood is polluted, Angleterre, he wants to say, just like mine. Will you try to cut off his tongue too?

But he doesn't, because Canada doesn't want to be cruel. (That, he thinks, is yet another difference between him and England.)

"Do you find me disgusting?" America asks one night, the night after his newspapers had been inundated with the news of war, war, and more war.

"No," Canada answers, because it would not do to agitate his best customer.

"Really?" America asks, "Even if I do this?" He takes a syringe from the floor (there are so many, so many, and they're everywhere, gathering dust on America's floor) and jabs it roughly into a vein on his arm. "Even now?"

Red seeps through his clothes, and Canada shakes his head, smiling. (He's perfected this smile, really, perfected it when England would visit, and though England had seen through it, he doubted his brother would. America was too rough around the edges to be England.)

"No, Alfred," he says smoothly, "not even now."

America does not answer, because he's busy squeezing the syringe, busy getting every last drop of the liquid in the tube. And when he's done, he yanks it out, not caring that he had taken chunks of skin out in the roughness, not caring because he knows he's already ruined, because even if Matthew won't tell him, he's not blind.

(Not yet, anyway, not yet.)

Oh, Angleterre, if you could see him now, would you still love him? Would you?

notes:

This thing got hella out of hand once I started writing it. :P It was also insanely difficult to write. So yes, sorry, this thing is basically why I haven't updated any of my multi-chapter stuff yet. The idea came to mind and I just had to run with it.

- America imports more oil from Canada than any other country
- Canada has the second largest proven oil reserves in the world
- Canada has had a trade surplus, but this is largely due to trade (most of which is crude oil) with the U.S. That is, Canada, like the U.S., has trade deficits with Asia and Europe, but its (giant) trade surplus with the U.S. makes up for those deficits. (see www40 . statcan . gc . ca/l01/cst01/gblec02a-eng . htm for details).

Twist all this around a little and it certainly can be interpreted negatively...:P Note that this is very, very twisted around and no longer represents the relations between the two countries. I apologize for making out various nations as not-so-nice. (I don't think anyone's portrayed positively in this, so at least I wasn't specifically targeting anyone.)

Translations:

"Je suis desolé, vraiment, vraiment desolé, mais - " I am sorry, very very sorry, but -
"Oh, tu es vraiment désolé? Je ne vois pas tout ça dans tes yeux. Je vois un garçon stupide, un garçon qui ne sait rien." - "Oh, you're very sorry? I don't see that in your eyes. I see a stupid boy, a boy who knows nothing."

Yeah, England knows how to speak French too, due to the Norman invasions and such. (Granted, his French is shit, which maybe I can use to excuse my own crappy French skills.) Meanwhile, corrections are appreciated. ;D

Thanks for reading, and feedback would be awesome!