Throughout the twelve years that passed after the Treaty of Paris, there were many changes that go on for Canada. First off, he is now known as "the Province of Québec" by most, which causes a bit of confusion between young Matthew and Laurent.

All of the now-British colonies can agree that getting used to living with Britain instead of France was one of the strangest changes, especially after Canada officially met his far more exuberant brother, America.

As much as the young nation was overshadowed by his brother's loud tendencies, both of the siblings grew rapidly. Before long, both America and Canada were taller (than Britain, but don't mention that to him), stronger, and one of them was feeling far more rebellious than the other.

Hint, it's America.

Of course, unlike most teenagers who just go out and get a tattoo or something, America was ticked at how Britain had been taxing the colonies to help fund the Seven Years' War. So, like any other teenage nation, he dumped some tea in the Boston Harbour and decided to try and invade his little brother. Canada didn't like that idea very much...neither did Québec.

Canada waits, snow beneath his boots and a clear grey sky stretched out above him, feeling completely sick to his stomach as he waits for Adalene to meet him. He's wearing a red uniform with black-cuffed sleeves and white pants, a musket hanging over his shoulders. It feels stiff, far too professional for him to be wearing, but he knows deep in his heart that he has to wear it. He has to help his brothers fight.

He winces at the idea, and for a moment he swears that he can hear the angry shouts of America and Britain. The young nation hates the idea of being in between two more fighting countries; first France and Britain, now America and Britain. Why can't they all just learn to get along?

The gentle crunching of the fresh snow makes him perk up, his violet eyes widening with slight fear as he sends a silent prayer that the approaching person isn't America. He lets out a breath of relief when it's Métis that steps from the woods, a small paper clutched in her hand that he recognizes as the one he sent to her.

She too has gotten older, along with Québec, Newfoundland, and Canada. She's filled out, her figure more of a woman's instead of a girl's despite only being physically sixteen, and she almost seems to take on the aura of confidence that First Nation had before her. Her hair is loose today, let out of its usual braids and letting it fall around her shoulders.

"Canada? Is something wrong?" she asks, noting the look on his face. She looks him over, her expression freezing with what he could interpret as illness. "Why...why are you wearing a war uniform?" she asks, her voice tight.

He sighs, glancing away as she moves closer to him, her buckskin clothing keeping her warm. "My brothers...they're fighting," he says, voice soft and pained.

She wrinkles her nose, stopping right next to him as she shakes her head. "Honestly, is that all countries know how to do? Fight? Shoot each other? Invade each other?"

"Seems like it, eh?"

She looks up at him, her hand automatically tugging at one of the white straps crossing his chest. "You don't though. You're peaceful, as far as I can tell. That's why I like you," she mumbles.

He can't bring himself to smile. "Thanks, but I do wish I could stand up for myself better."

Her muscles tense, her fingers freezing on his clothing. "Matthew...what's going on?"

His violet eyes find her brown ones, both pairs saddened. "Alfred's taken Montréal...he's trying to invade me, turn my people against me, and he's got two armies coming for Québec city."

She shakes her head. "No, that can't-"

"I have to go help Laurent defend himself, and I wanted to tell you just in case something happens," he continues as he turns away, looking out at the frozen earth as he frowns deeply. He sighs as his shoulders sag. "I'm so tired of my family fighting, Adalene."

There's a moment of silence where neither country nor province do a thing. Then, Métis steps closer and wraps her arms around Canada's middle. As soon as she does that, he pulls her closer to his body, pressing his cheek against the top of her head as he squeezes his eyes shut. She, although surprised by his forward action, returns the embrace as she buries her face against his shoulder.

"Things can't be bad forever, right?" she whispers.

He nods, not wanting to let go of her quite yet. He takes in a deep breath through his nose. "At least you aren't fighting me..."

"I don't think I ever could."

He finally releases her, the two young immortals gazing at each other for one more moment. Canada leans forward and pecks her forehead, making her feel all warm inside as he backs up as he salutes weakly.

"Au revoir," he says, turning and starting to jog towards Québec's place.

Métis waves, her countenance heavy with sorrow. "Au revoir, Canada."

----------

Québec waits within his city, holding a musket in his gloved hands. The heavy snow falling all around him only solidifies his fear, that America will be coming for him tonight. That's what Laurent heard from the spies; "When the sky clouds over, he'll come for you."

Clear skies for weeks, and on New Years' Eve is when the snow comes in and darkens the land.

The brunet looks towards his men, a horribly outnumbered bunch of British redcoats, then his light brown eyes fall on the street. He swallows, muttering a French curse under his breath as he tries to focus. He hears the oncoming footsteps before anyone else, motioning to his men concealed within the darkness. They ready their muskets.

As the first flank of three hundred American soldiers round the bend, Québec nods. A barrage of musket fire blasts from the shadows in puffs of explosive light, invisible to the enemy soldiers, and within seconds the generals and leaders of the flank have been dropped.

Québec shouts an order to hold their ground, getting up and dashing towards where the next army of nearly seven hundred Americans were planning a rendezvous with the group that just got gunned down. Québec will die before he leaves his men to fight without him.

He reaches the spot and readies his musket, giving orders easily and holding his ground. He'll never let his men see just how nervous the physically sixteen-year-old is. The moment he sees the American's face...he isn't sure how he'll react, be it with anger or stoic confidence, he won't let another one of Canada's cities fall to his brother. Matthew gets ignored enough.

The second group arrives, dressed in blue with muskets raised. The Canadiens open fire, but Québec's eyes remain on the man at the head of the group; blue eyes, sandy blond hair with a cowlick sticking up at the front, lips pressed in a determined line.

America.

Québec's vision flashes with red upon seeing the country that forced Montréal into surrender. He raises his musket, firing without a second thought. The musket-ball sails through the air and embeds itself in America's shoulder, causing him to grunt in surprise and pain. He doesn't go down, no, it'll take far more than that, but Laurent has never been one to just roll over and give up.

America's eyes lock on Québec's, narrowing as he storms forwards, gun ready. Québec stands his ground, despite the pounding of his heart and the obvious feeling that he really should have thought before shooting a powerful nation in the shoulder.

"Canada, where are you?" the Frenchmen mutters, anxiety in his tone as he readies his weapon against the American again.

Before he gets the chance to fire, America fires, launching a musket-ball into Québec's leg. He inhales sharply, determined not to scream, and America takes the moment of weakness to leap forward and knock him to the ground, moving so fast Québec can't comprehend what just happened and where he got hit. Judging by the pounding of his head, he probably got hit there. America smirks as the province rolls over and shoves himself back to his feet, bloody leg struggling to hold him up. Québec suddenly finds himself quite weaponless, his musket laying in the oncoming snow a few feet away.

Québec's light brown eyes fall on America, putting his fists up as a growl passes his lips. America narrows his eyes, jaw clenching as he slings his musket over his non-wounded shoulder.

"Surrendering will hurt a lot less," the country utters.

The province snorts. "As if I'd surrender to someone like you."

America launches forwards and swings his fist towards Québec, a hit the province swiftly dodges and retaliates with his own hit. America evades that far too easily, swinging his leg out in an attempt to trip up the Frenchmen.

The dance continues, punches and kicks being thrown and narrowly dodged, but America gains the upper hand and swings his foot into Québec's injured leg. The province cries out as he collapses into the ever-accumulating snow, gripping his leg, and America reacts instantly as he retrieves his musket from his back and aims it at Québec, finger on the trigger.

Just as he pulls it, a blur knocks the weapon out of the way and sends both it and the blast off course, the gun clattering against the icy ground. America looks up in shock as Canada holds a musket to his chest, Matthew's own chest heaving and his face flushed.

"Don't...lay another finger on him..." he orders, tone low and honestly scarier than Alfred would imagine.

"Canada, what are you doing?" he demands, hands shaking. "I'm your brother!"

"And so is he, but right now Laurent isn't the one laying siege to my country, eh?" Canada retorts without hesitation, violet eyes like hardened amethyst as he stares at America.

"I'm trying to liberate you!" the older country snaps, fists clenched at his sides. "You don't have to be kept under Britain's fist anymore, like some wimpy little brother! You're stronger than that!"

Canada's face softens, but he doesn't lower the gun. The snowflakes land in his hair, nestling among the golden strands, but he doesn't react. His gaze is only on his brother.

"I'm still too young, and Britain has been good to me," Canada whispers, a jolt of pain arcing through his chest when America's face falls. "Why are you doing this to him, Alfred? Why are you hurting him like this?"

He offers no response, muscles shaking and the tip of Matthew's musket still aimed at his heart. He shakes his head, his blue eyes swimming with pain.

"I thought you'd see..." he whispers. "I thought you'd realize that we can be your own countries, that we can live without a big brother restricting us, but I was wrong."

Canada swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, Alfie. I'm still too young and I've still got a lot to learn about who I am." He glances over America's shoulder. "Now...you can retreat, or I'll be forced to do something drastic."

America looks around, seeing that the Canadien troops have circled around and blocked off what was going to be the nation's retreat route, but now he only finds guns on all sides and bodies littering the snow and staining it red. The remaining of the American soldiers are on their knees, hands in the air and guns on the ground.

He failed.

"I'll go, Matthew," Alfred utters, putting his hands up as he lowers his head. "I...surrender."

Canada looks up at the men of Québec, giving them a short nod. They part the way and allow America to leave, but he leaves alone. The rest of his men are slowly rounded up and taken prisoner.

Canada relaxes as soon as his brother is gone, turning and kneeling next to Québec. The province is obviously still in pain, but by the way his expression holds awe, it's hard to tell.

"Matthew, that was-" he starts.

"Are you alright?" Canada interrupts, checking the bloody leg of his friend. "It wasn't too bad, was it?"

"Hit by a country...oui, hurts a bit more than a regular one," Québec responds. "But you...Canada, you stood up for yourself. Québec City held! Magnifique..." he whispers, his body slouching. "Je suis si fatigué, mon ami," he mumbles, shutting his eyes for a moment.

The blond wraps his arms around his friend, shutting his eyes as he keeps him close, supporting his weight easily. "I'm glad you're alive, Laurent..."

The exhausted French province returns the sleepy smile. "As am I, Matthew."

----------

As soon as the ice on the St Lawrence River cracks with the oncoming spring, British ships arrive at Québec City with reinforcements for the depleted ranks. Canada stands next to Québec, a bandage still wrapped around the province's leg.

They perk up as a blond Englishmen comes racing off the largest ship, green eyes wide and hair disheveled.

"Canada, Québec!" Britain calls, looking utterly relieved to see them alive. He races forwards and engulfs them in a squishy group hug, his panicked disposition making them laugh awkwardly. "Are you boys alright? America didn't hurt you too badly?" He looks to Québec, taking the boy's face in his hands and nodding a few times.

"We're fine, Britain," Canada says, his voice one again soft as his brother switches over and cups his face, checking for bruises and cuts on the skin.

Britain breathes out, releasing his little brother as he recomposes himself, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding as he almost pouts. "Uh...yes, well, glad to see that you two held out. Against all odds, you did it. Well done."

"Merci," Québec says with a tiny smile.

"Um...Britain? If I may talk to you..." Canada says, gesturing off to the side.

Britain nods, the two countries bidding a brief farewell to Québec before walking along whatever path they find. Canada purses his lips, trying to find the right words.

"So...America said he was trying to liberate me from you," he starts, seeing how the Brit noticeably tenses at the idea. "I, well...I sorta thought that this was gonna be another one of those quarrels, but this isn't slowing down." He stops waking as he turns to his big brother, face wrought with concern. "How far is Alfred going to go?"

Britain shuts his eyes, letting out a long exhale of breath. Canada waits patiently for his brother's answer, although he fears what it could be.

"I don't know, but I hope it ceases soon," Britain says. He smiles a little bit and claps Canada on the shoulder. "Well, how about we go and talk more over some tea?"

Canada nods. "I'd like that."