Sealand had a problem.

As he lay in bed, wired and awake (because really, 8:30 was too early a bedtime for a nation like him!), his thoughts drifted to the one thing that had plagued his mind for over a week.

Boobs.

Ukraine's boobs.

He couldn't understand his sudden fascination with them; Sealand felt he should be scared of them more than anything. They were probably big enough to crush him. Like a pair of beach balls. Which they did resemble, he realized, what with the way they bounced and bounced…

Sealand shot up with a startled gasp, a thick blush and frustrated frown adorning his face.

This had to stop.

And it would stop now.


England, though a jerk, proved to be a good source of information from time to time. Of course, everything had its price. The price for this was to take up Sealand's precious time, not to mention requiring that he actually interact with the loser. What a pain.

"Hey jerk, I need help. What is so interesting about breasts?"

England looked up from his book, evidently aggravated and utterly baffled as he examined his brother. "Firstly, don't insult me if you want my help. Secondly…what was it you asked?"

Sealand rolled his eyes. How stupid could a guy be? "Breasts. What's the deal with them? Why are they so interesting?"

"P-Pffff—!" England sprayed a mist of saliva in Sealand's face, choking on laughter and struggling for air. "B-Breasts? Is that it? Blimey, thi-this is priceless!"

A brilliant shade of red dusted Sealand's face, his pride stuttering a moment. "Sh-Shut up, jerk England, and just tell me!"

"Not a chance, you little scrap," England said, a dark smirk blooming on his face. He wiped the humored tears from his eyes. "Good luck with puberty, brat!" England began cackling once again, unable to contain his mirth.

Of course, everything had a price.

England's was a bruising kick to the shin from a spiteful micro-nation.


So apparently touching a woman's boobs wasn't okay. Sealand was sure it was, considering that France was constantly grabbing at the female nations' (as well as far too many of the male nations, but Sealand had already banished such knowledge from his mind).

But all of that was beside the point now. The current point was that Sealand's hands were quite literally pressed against Ukraine's chest and her eyes were quickly filling with confused tears, yet he couldn't find himself caring. All he cared about, all he knew at that moment was that her boobs were so warm, so round so cushy—

"Wha-What…?" Sealand pulled his eyes from her covered boobs to shoot a questioning glare at her. He was kind of busy here. "Wh-What are you doing?" The last part came out as a high-pitched squeak, the shrilly sound causing him to cringe.

"What does it look like? I need to figure out the mystery behind these."

Ukraine wiped her eyes, momentarily forgetting Sealand's small hands and looking at him with a wondering stare. "Mystery? What do you mean?" she asked, her voice now softer and more calm.

"What's the big deal with them? That pervert France is always grabbing at them, and America and those other fellows are always staring at yours—"("Wh-What?")"—so I'm wondering what's going on. Are they magic or something? Because that would be brilliant if you were hypnotizing people with your breasts."

She sniffled. "Magic?"

"Yeah—"

In retrospect, carrying out his plan on break during a World Meeting was probably not the best course of action.

"Dude, what are you doing to my girlfriend? Not cool, yo!"

The pair looked up to see an affronted America racing toward them, soda bottle still in hand.

Sealand rolled his eyes. "Blimey, do I have to explain this to everyone? I'm researching!"

America stopped just short of the pair, nearly bowling Sealand over as he arrived at a screeching halt. "Research? You studyin' breast cancer or something? Because I'm pretty sure us grownups can handle that—"

"No, you nitwit!" Sealand exclaimed, stomping his foot in frustration. "I'm trying to figure out what makes them interesting!"

America looked at him thoughtfully, processing this information with loud gulps of his drink. After a long moment he finally stopped, capping the bottle with a contented sigh and wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "Interesting," he repeated, "so you wanna know what's so great about tits?"

"Have you been listening at all? I want to know about breasts, not birds!"

"That's what I said!" America hollered in return. "Tits! You know, boobs?"

Sealand instantly calmed at this, his hands falling to his sides (much to the comfort of Ukraine) and an attentive expression replacing his indignant one as he spun to face America. "Oh, of course."

"Yep. I'm pretty much an expert at things like this," America informed him, nodding sagely. "Boobs, especially big ones, are awesome." He walked up to Sealand and stood beside him, turning the boy around so they were both facing Ukraine. "Y'see how big they are? The bigger the better. One of the greatest things about them is how squishy and cushy they are, making them great pillows. It's like this: you wouldn't want to sleep on a flat board, right?" Sealand frowned and shook his head. "Exactly. Small boobs are like a flat board. They're uncomfortable and there's nothing to grab. Here, let me show you."

Ukraine whimpered in shock and discomfort as each breast was held by a different person, testing the clothed flesh with curious squeezes.

"See how soft and easy to hold it is? Tits like these are the best kind, easy to grip and ensuring you keep a secure position when you plow into a chick."

Sealand furrowed his brow in confusion, not particularly enjoying the way America's thought process seemed to jump around. "What has farming to do with breasts? First you talk about birds, then farming! Please, just explain!"

"Dude, I'm being as clear as I can here! 'Plowing into a chick.' As in 'banging—'"

"A-America!" Ukraine warbled worriedly, fretting as she said, "You can't tell him such things!"

America fixed her with a confused expression. "Huh? Whaddya mean, babe?" He stared at her as she looked around her for a way to communicate her stress, finally getting America to understand by jerking her head toward Sealand. "Oh! Right. Totally forgot, my bad. Well, uh," America scratched the side of his neck in thought. "Why don't you ask England what plowing is after the meeting? Anyway, back to boobs." Once again their attention fell on Ukraine's chest. "Feel how warm they are? That combined with the squishiness makes them ten times better than pillows. Now, onto the next part of the lesson. Observe."

Sealand watched as America lifted the hand holding her breast, then releasing his grip and allowing it to fall, Sealand's eyes following it as it continued to bounce and wrinkle her shirt's fabric. "See that, kid? Amazing."

"Wow…" he muttered in awe, completely blown away by how America was able to put his questions to rest at last. "I had no idea. You really are brilliant, America!"

"Hahaha, of course I am!" America smiled widely, practically sparkling with good humor as he patted Sealand heavily on the shoulder. "You can always ask your big bro America if you need something!"

The lesson ended on a good note, all three full of cheer and not tears (Ukraine's had dried up a while before). That is, until later, when Sealand had his backside smacked raw when Finland and Sweden heard about what had transpired at the meeting.

Still, despite the pain, Sealand slept soundly that night, dreamlessly enjoying the resolution to that which plagued him. He sighed contentedly in his sleep, turning over with a slight grin. An excellent day indeed.


On the same night, in another part of the world, another young nation shot up in bed, a cold sweat soaking the back of his nightshirt and harsh pants of air escaping his lips. The spirit in the boy's curl wore a face that directly mimicked his own, bright red and slack-jawed. What had that dream meant? He'd never had one such as that in all of his many years of existence. It was unsettling, but somehow, not unwelcome, and it was possibly a little arousing.

Only one thought made itself known, and it consisted of only one thing.

'Breasts, daze.'