Newfoundland wanders along, enjoying the scent of the ocean in the breeze. He loves it when he can just walk around and play like this, with no one around telling him to act more like an adult.

He turns his gaze to the sky, shielding his eyes as he watches the clouds float by. A grin spreads across his face, a face that's become leaner with age, and he lets out a happy laugh as he flops into the grass. He shuts his eyes, inhaling the warm scent of the earth as the warm air rustles his hair.

All too soon, his stomach twists and he winces, his eyes fluttering open once more. The remnants of America and Britain's power struggle is still causing discomfort to Canada and the rest of his friends, little ripples of remembrance moving through the land.

Newfoundland's blue eyes seem to dull for a moment with sadness, thinking of his brothers fighting. He misses back when it was just France and Britain, the two countries somehow working together to take care of little Newfoundland. Why can't those days just come back?

His thoughts are interrupted as a sudden blow lands against his side, causing a sharp exhalation of both surprise and pain. He rolls over, clutching his side as he tries to recover his breath. Nearby, he hears another unmistakeable grunt of someone falling over.

"H-Hello?" the blond wheezes, wincing again as he slowly pushes himself to his feet.

He looks around, noticing the crushed grass leading down a small hill that was obviously the path of something rolling down said knoll. The young colony moves carefully along the path, keeping an eye out for whatever it was that kicked him. Then, he catches sight of a body.

Upon getting closer, he can see that it's a boy, a teenager by the looks of it. He's physically older than Newfoundland, but the maritime colony can tell that this person is like him. At first glance, he wonders whether the strange boy is actually alive or not.

His eyes stay closed, his pale skin decorated with a spray of freckles across his cheeks. His hair is an untidy mop of red curls the colour of maple leaves in the autumn, and one odd little curl drapes down from the centre of his forehead and almost sticks straight up. His clothing consists of a simple white button up shirt and wrinkled brown pants and feet are bare, stained with remnants of dirt and small stones.

"Um...bud? You okay there?" Newfoundland asks, gently prodding the boy's bicep.

His eyes fly open, startling the blond with the pure blue colour of them. The redhead sits up, shaking his head and making his hair impossibly messier.

"Oi, that was quite a spill," he mumbles, holding his head as a laugh leaves him. He looks at the boy, his thin eyebrows narrowing a little. "Did I trip over you?"

Newfoundland doesn't answer for a moment, amazed by the Scottish twinge in the teen's accent. The newcomer tilts his head a little as he smirks, wondering why he looks so astounded. He chuckles and nudges his shoulder with his fist.

"Quiet one, huh? Don't worry, lad, everyone has shy moments. Well..." He laughs again and brushes off his shirt. "I don't. But that's me and I'm a bit more eccentric than most."

"Oh, I'm not shy, bud," Newfoundland says, finally finding his voice. "I was just surprised by your accent. Never heard anything quite like it, eh?"

"Well yours is nothing to ignore either," he retorts. He sticks his hand out and flashes a smile. "I'm Nova Scotia. Popped up around here in 1713, I'd say, could be off by a couple decades. Until recently, I was a colony."

"And now?"

"Now..." He shrugs. "I guess I'm supposed to become a province one day."

Newfoundland takes his hand and shakes. "Nice to meet you, bud! I'm Newfoundland." Nova Scotia returns the smile, but the shorter colony keeps talking. "Have you met Mister Canada yet? He's a country, bud, a country. He's amazing!"

Nova Scotia's face flickers with slight curiosity. "Canada? No, I haven't met him." He scratches his head as he rolls his head to the side, a small crack sounding from his neck as he sighs with content. "Is it just us three around here?"

Newfoundland fidgets, but shakes his head. "Uh...well no, eh? There's Québec, he's kind of a big shot around here, and then there's this girl who doesn't really know who she is yet."

"A girl?" The Scot's eyes seem to light up as he grins, although it's almost like a smirk. "I oughta introduce myself, now don't you think? Don't want to be—"

"Bud, she'll punch you before you even get a line out," the short colony says, gripping his shoulder. "But you should meet Québec. Him and Canada are sorta...one right now, I guess?"

"I can't meet Canada himself?"

Newfoundland looks away from his new friend, scratching the back of his neck. "Uh...no, see...Mister Canada's kinda busy with other things. Talking to Québec comes first, okay eh?"

Nova Scotia frowns, glancing out over the land as his face takes on a more serious undertone. "Is this about all the gunfire over there?" he asks, pointing towards the south.

Newfoundland nods. "It's...not pretty."

----------

"Britain?" Canada calls, peering into his brother's dark house. Thunder rolls outside, a flash of lightning illuminating the dark home. The country swallows and slips inside, his clothing soaked. "Britain, it's me...Canada," he repeats. "Are you in here?"

He shuts the door, the gentle slam resonating throughout the house like a gong. Canada adjusts the bandage wrapped around his head, wincing for only a second before continuing towards Britain's study. If he's going to be anywhere, it's there.

He moves up the stairs carefully, his shoes leaving behind tiny drops of water on the wood as he goes. He'll clean it up later, but right now he has to know if his brother is okay. After what he heard...

He reaches the study and twists the knob, peeking inside. His heart twists when he sees his brother seated at his desk, his head down and his arms covering his face. He's still wearing his red uniform, his unkempt blond hair still damp and his shoulders shaking. Canada doesn't hesitate to move inside, clearing his throat as quietly as he can.

"Britain?" he whispers.

A choked noise sounds from the country, his hands clenching into fists. "Go away, Canada."

The young nation frowns, his violet eyes shimmering with hurt, but he chooses to be disobedient for once in his life. He shakes his head and steps closer to his distraught brother.

"Arthur, I just wanted to be here for you. I know that you're going through a hard-" he starts.

"I said go away!" Britain snaps, his head lifting as he glares at his little brother.

Canada falters, his shoulders slumping. His brother's green eyes are reddened, his nose pink and tear stains leaving tracks along his cheeks. Even his eyebrows look less kept together than usual, and Canada knows that Britain is the kind of guy to take better care of his eyebrows than his hair.

"O-Okay...I just wanted to help," Canada squeaks, trying to keep his voice from wavering as he turns back to the door.

He takes two steps, reaches for the handle, and rests a hand on it before Britain's choked voice sounds again.

"Wait, Matthew..." he almost pleads, stopping the country's advance. "I didn't...or, I..." He cuts himself off and sighs, the sound laden with sorrow. "Don't leave me too."

Canada slowly turns his head, expecting to see his brother still seated, but is instead engulfed in a tight hug. He blinks a few times in surprise as Britain clings to him, his face buried against his shoulder and his hands grasping fistfuls of Canada's tan coat. The peaceful young nation wraps his arms around the Brit, patting his back gently.

"How about I make you some tea?" he offers.

Britain nods, sniffling a few times. "Y-Yeah, tea sounds good," he croaks, pulling away and hurrying to wipe his eyes. He coughs a few times. "Uh...don't mention this...er...crying thing to anyone, savvy?"

Canada bobs his head up and down in response. "Whatever you want."

A short while later, the two countries sit next to the large window across from one another, teacups in hand and eyes cast out at the stormy world outside. Canada's violet eyes flicker to his brother every now and then,

"Why must colonies always seek independence?" Britain asks, taking a short sip from his cup.

Canada ponders that for a moment, glancing towards the U.K. with a tiny smile. "Well...all young birds must leave the nest at some point, so maybe it's just the human side of us that wants to be free, eh?"

Britain pauses, thinking over the words. His mind wanders to thoughts of his own big brothers; Scotland, Ireland, Wales. He can't deny that he too wanted to be free from them at one point, be his own man and not live in their shadows forever. When he became America's big brother...

"Do you suppose he hates me?" he asks.

Canada doesn't need to know who "he" is in this sentence. "No, I don't think Alfred could ever hate you."

A tiny smile flickers across the Englishmen's face. "Thank you for being here, Canada."

The Canadian returns the look. "You're welcome, Arthur."