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By LadyLazarus33


Chapter 1


It was funny really.

And by funny, he really meant it in the least humorous way possible. He had raised them, along with Arthur, but the support had been less tangible than him, symbolic to put the term. And granted, he couldn't remember a time when he had been that happy amongst the rambunctiousness of his own children.

The sound of the word made a deep feeling in the bottom of his gut, something, as old as he was, he was old, a surge of love and protectiveness so large it almost physically hurt.

That hurt tended to spill out at times. It was without question that they never were supposed to hide anything major. Political discrepancies and such were fine, but he swears to God if he finds another catastrophe- somebody was going to die. And they would die slowly.

At least, that was his inner philosophy. The Angleterre, would be quicker to murder than he was if the sight of danger was clear, much less that he could have blamed this irrationality.

They were nations, for God's sake, not parents finding out their son has been teased at school by the kids on the playground, but more on the unfortunately ever-increasing scale of shut-up-you-aren't-going-to-leave-me-please-shut-up-i-know-it-hurts -don't-say-that-because-I-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-die.

Growing up was a relief, but it never made anything easier, because now everybody understands the struggles, and the minute idiosyncrasies, and the fact is when they look at you with those eyes you wished for a moment you could eat the world raw in their names at the sight of clenched teeth and hands, biting back words of a grand old 'what the hell did you just say to me? Fuck you' to the head of their country, and the silent looks of reproach you have to give them to keep the situation under some semblance of control before there even is a situation and what hurts the most is the look on their faces at the silent answer of no-it-doesn't-get-easier-no-you-don't-always-have-a-say-no-they-will-never-stop-talking-no-sometimes-there-isn't-anything-you-can-do-about-it-and -I-know-I-know-I-know-I-know-remember-I-love-you-and-I'm-sorry.

Damn it, he hated that word.

Because from where he stood it was so hollow and cold and empty and always lying to you if you wanted to make something hurts less in the moment and sorry never makes up for late nights and too many cigarettes and drip drip drip of coffee in mouths and down throats and in the sink and it sure as hell will never make up for bad dreams and arguments and red eyes and stomachaches and migraines and you're-not-dead-yet and the panic attacks on the bathroom floor and your children don't see you holding his hand underneath the table and keeping him alive with only your eyes from here to 1947 and the i-hate-you-je-suis-désolé-fuck-you-go-to-hell-shut-up-dad-quest-ce-c'est-passe-leave-me-alone-vous-comprenez-jamais - and it was a sin but you were this close to pulling the trigger because the question is was it worth it i-don't-know-if-I'm-even-worth-it-and your reality keeps shifting with your concept of God is anything real anymore and if-you-would-just-listen-I'm-done-don't-you-care-about-them- don't-leave-me-if-you-knew-how-much-Arthur-and-I-love-you-reviens-tu-me-manques-je-t'aime-I'm-sorry-I-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-die and Matthew's dizzy spells and his brother's trouble sleeping and their heart


Because from how he saw it, death had two sides: same word, different faces.

Part I-October

France glances up a t the sound of feet trudging down the hall, knowing that it is not his husband. The man would probably sleep through the second coming.

He looks at the clock. 2:47

He would only get up if he needed to.

Canada is more responsive to comfort than his brother. And, as much as he hated to admit it, better at hiding.

The seconds seem to hesitate.

He can almost hear his turmoil, the judgment from an unspoken force go-back-to-bed-you'll-feel-better-later-go-to-sleep- forget-about-it-see-you-in-the-morning-you're-19-years-old-damn-it-for-God's-sake-you-do-not-need-your-father

But even so, the weight of a body leaning against his side is enough to give him some relief from the panic ebbing itself into his chest. He frowns at Matthew's slight shaking, book forgotten on the living room side table and he just holds him for a moment. France shifts, and Matthew slowly goes with it, curling his body into his with the same fragility of a three year old afraid of the dark. The boy's face is pressed against his neck and throat. His breaths are ragged, unsteady, and almost uncomfortably hot against Frances skin, but when he starts to move, he's left decidedly cold in his son's wake.

So Francis just cards his fingers though the boy's messy hair, musing to himself faintly that he should get it cut, and hums softly, only once. The silent command is enough to make his son jump out of his daze for a moment and concentrate on slowing his heartbeat.

One two three

One two three

The grip on his shirt is loosening slowly. Canada's nails are no longer digging into his flesh through the thin fabric.

One two three

One two three

The panic that was rising in his chest is diminishing as well, and he presses his face into the boy's hair. He smells like winter and bad dreams.

One two three

One two three

And they are waltzing on the couch and the thought itself enough to make Matthew breathe. The seconds hold their breath before Francis speaks, voice almost too loud in the quiet house.

"Qu'est que tu vois?"

What do you see?



"Est-ce que tu te rappelles?"

Do you remember?

The boy whimpers. Francis runs a hand down his back, hushing him softly. He presses a soft kiss into his bed ragged hair. For a moment he wishes he could just breathe the calm he's trying to muster out of himself and into his breaking son.



And somehow he is young again, too young running through wilderness with their heartbeats in sync she is something more but not as Alfred, never a womb mate, but something of him and in a strange way they loved each other for a time.

But like everything else, it ends.

And there is arguments and tension and stressful days in place of winter outside underneath the full moon and daisy chains and the smell of melting ice and sap coming from the trees and instead of see-you-tomorrow-goodbye it is what-do-you-mean-why-did-you-say-that-why-are-you-doing-this-to-me-you-never-understand-me-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-why-reviens-please-don't-je-suis-désolé-i-love-you-too-much-for-you-to-go

Francis lets him ride out the shockwave until it is over. Matthew sighs, the sound bitterly sad and almost slumps against the older nation. He continues the action of running his fingers through his hair, humming softly.

"It wasn't your fault." he offers.

The boy inhales slowly, holding onto the warmth of his father's touch before getting up and moving back into his room. The last light in the living room shuts off.

The 1995 Quebec referendum was the second referendum to ask voters in the Canadian province of Quebec whether Quebec should proclaim national sovereignty and become an independent state, with the condition precedent of offering a political and economic agreement to Canada.

The culmination of multiple years of debate and planning after the failure of the Meech Lake Accord, the referendum was launched by the Parti Québécois government of Jacques Parizeau. An eventful and complex campaign followed, with the "Yes" side flourishing after being taken over by Bloc Québécois leader Lucien Bouchard.

The referendum took place in Quebec on October 30, 1995, with "No" winning by 54,228 votes (0.58%).




Whoever posts the first review gets whatever historical event they want with France/America! NO SMUT. THEY'RE FAMILY FOR GOD'S SAKE.

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