Ontario walks through the various bustling roads as he heads towards Québec's house, momentarily trying to distract his thoughts by looking at the various ships moored in the harbours or the people hurrying around and jabbering to one another in French. He grits his teeth, his bushy eyebrows furrowing with annoyance.

If he's being honest with himself, he thought that the Act of Union would've taken care of this Francophone business. Unfortunately for him, that isn't the case. The French influence is still heavily prominent in the combined province of Canada.

He reaches the correct building and steels himself as he walks up to the door, lifting his hand and smacking the surface with his knuckles rather forcefully. He stands back and waits, hearing the remnants of French floating through a nearby open window.

The door swings open to reveal Québec, completely prim and proper right down to his shining shoes. Everything, that is, save for that one cowlick that sticks up at the part of his brunet hair. No doubt that little piece of hair is a result of America's influence on him when he was younger, Ontario thinks.

"Ah...I suppose I must start speaking English again now that you're here?" he asks, sounding tired at the very idea.

"You could just say hello," Ontario retorts as he pouts. He lifts his chin, trying to look taller. "Someone like me deserves respect."

"Right...sure," the Frenchman continues, rolling his eyes as he steps to the side and gestures. "Canada is already in the living room. I set out drinks if you want some."

Ontario walks inside, forcing himself not to look sideways at Québec as he does. As it was said, Canada sits in the living room looking incredibly bothered by whatever is racing through his mind. His curl is quivering, his violet eyes are wide and distant, and his face is flushed. Ontario feels a stab of worry in his chest, but coughs and regains his composure.

Ontario takes one of the free spots, reaching out to prepare himself a cup of tea. Québec joins them soon after, pulling a cigarette from his vest pocket and lighting it before placing it between his teeth. He glances at Ontario, arching an eyebrow and pointing to the stick. The blond shakes his head and wrinkles his nose.

"Alright, you're both here," Canada says, shifting in place as he runs his fingers through his shaggy hair. "I need to talk about the political deadlock." Both Ontario and Québec let out long groans at that, but Canada perseveres. "You're getting nothing done! No laws, no bills, this country isn't moving forwards. I can't do anything if you guys won't agree."

"It's not my fault! I have lots of great ideas! It's that wanker who's screwing everything up!" Ontario accuses, jabbing a finger at Québec. Québec's brown eyes flash as his jaw clenches. "Whenever I try to pass a new bill, he shuts it down!"

"Everything you want to do undermines my people's wishes," Québec retorts, taking the cigarette from his mouth and blowing the smoke into his frenemy's face. "You can't expect me to agree about anything like that."

"This is because you're a bloody Catholic, isn't it?!"

"Excuse me, but I prefer not to stick with any one religion, Protestant spawn of the black sheep of Europe."

"And now you're insulting Britain! I oughta—"

"GUYS!" Canada shouts as he leaps to his feet, making the both of them shut up. He turns redder, instantly returning to his spot on the ornate couch. "I...I want to fix this, but you have to stop this fighting. You're brothers!"

"He is not my brother," Ontario snaps, jabbing his finger towards Québec. He adjusts his glasses, a bead of sweat appearing on his temple. "He will never be my brother."

"The feeling is mutual, connard," Québec returns, crushing his cigarette between his teeth. He removes the useless item from his mouth, mashing the stub into the nearest ashtray as he spits the remnants of ash from his tongue. "I will never call an Englishmen my brother, Canada."

They dissolve into arguing again, leaving Canada in ignored silence again. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to drown out the assault of mingling French and English being shouted right before him.

Canada clenches his hands into tight fists, his throat suddenly tight. He blinks multiple times, swallowing as he lets out a long breath. "I've been talking to my boss about Confederation," he says.

Somehow, those words get through to Québec and Ontario. Their heads snap to Canada, Ontario's hands clasped around Québec's collar and Québec with a fist raised towards the green-eyed province's face.

"Confederation? Like...leaving Britain?" Ontario croaks out.

"Did Monsieur Etienne put you up to it?" Québec demands.

"I don't know yet, I'm just trying to work something out," Canada says, his voice getting quieter by the second.

"We don't need to leave Britain. We can just dissolve this Union," Ontario insists. "That way, I won't have to be married to him any more." He curls his lip at Québec, earning a resulting eye roll.

"If you would stop whining about all this representation by population, maybe we could actually move forward," Québec says, reaching a hand to his mouth only to remember that he no longer has a cigarette perched there. He drops his hand. "While I would love a divorce, mon ami, having separate provinces would endanger the English speakers in my land and the Irish-Catholics in your land! What would Ireland think?"

"If you two separate for good, there's a very good possibility that America would annex you both," Canada says, his face flooding with fear. "I...I would disappear! You would become American! Do you want that?"

Ontario and Québec go rigid. Québec's hand moves to the cowlick in his hair, a scornful look eradicating his face at the thought of Canada's exuberant brother. Ontario exhales heavily through his nose.

"I may hate being near this frog spawn, but..." He clenches his hands into tight fists, his cheeks turning pink. "I'd rather die than become an American..." he whispers.

Québec's expression flickers with surprise as the faintest trace of a smile adorns his lips. Canada exhales and runs his hands over his face.

"I should tell you, there's a politician over at my place, George Brown," Ontario continues. "He...he told me that Britain is planning to visit us soon. Apparently, America is collapsing in on himself. There's a possibility of—"

"A civil war," Canada finishes, grave. "Alfred told me."

"Another war?" Québec repeats. His eyes fall on the violet-eyed blond, his language switching to French when he speaks again. "Canada, we're divided already. As much as I hate to admit it, we can't possibly stand up to America without Britain's help."

"Hey, uh...English please?" Ontario snaps. "I'm a part of this too!"

"Oh shut it, you imbecile. If you want to understand me, learn French," Québec retorts without averting his gaze from Canada. Ontario sputters a few times, his green eyes getting wide with frustration. "Matthew, what...what are you planning for us?"

"I'm going to talk to Britain about the options," he replies, noting Ontario sigh in relief upon hearing a language he can understand. "He's coming over later. I'll let you know." He stands up, brushing off his coat. "As for now...I believe our bosses are planning to meet soon. I want you two to contact the others; Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Prince Edward Island need to know about what's going on."

"What about Adalene?" Québec asks.

"I'll tell her in my free time, but she isn't...a province," Canada says. "Yet," he adds as an afterthought.

"I'll talk to Nova and PEI," Ontario offers.

"I'll talk to Newf and New Brunswick," Québec says. He rubs his nose, shutting his pale brown eyes as he takes cleansing breaths. "God, I need another smoke." He looks to his companions, bowing his head. "Au revoir, Canada, Ontario."

"Y-Yes, I should be going," Canada agrees as he gets to his feet, clearing his throat and tousling his shaggy hair. He motions to Ontario. "Oliver, I'll walk with you."

"Fine," Ontario sighs.

With a wordless farewell, the blond pair leaves the home. Québec watches as they walk down the front sidewalk and turn right as they exit the gate, heading down the street side by side. He perches his forearm against his elegant front window, his free hand resting in a fist on his hip. He exhales, massaging his fingers by clenching and unclenching them.

His brown eyes flicker to his hands, marked with faint lines from years and years of defending against whatever and whoever came marching up to his door. His handsome face falls, his head slumping so that his forehead kisses the cool glass and causes a tired sigh to escape his lips.

"Mon Dieu," he murmurs, his words a prayer. "Help us all..."

----------

Canada and Britain sit in Canada's house, their chairs across from and facing each other. Britain stares out the window, his eyebrows furrowed and his shoulders tense.

"Canada, I know that you're worried for America," he says, his eyes flickering to the young nation. "He's at war with himself this time, not just me, but I don't think I'm of use to you."

"W-What?" Canada asks, straightening in his seat. "Britain, you've helped me before!"

"Eh, just once or twice, chap," he says, brushing him off. "I...I think that you should play a larger role in defending yourself now. You're bigger, stronger, you'll be fine."

"I don't feel strong, Britain."

"Poppycock," he insists. When Canada frowns, unconvinced, the Brit sighs and rests his hand against his chin. "Canada, I can't look after you forever. You need to pull your own weight if you're ever going to be a stand-alone nation!"

"I know, but...I've been there for you through a lot, I don't want to just up and leave like America did."

That makes Britain's countenance shift. He averts his gaze back to the window, watching the snow beginning to drift down to earth. His knuckles turn white against the armrest.

"That was different. He rebelled. You...I want you to start working for yourself," he says, a strain in his voice that makes Canada's heart sink. "A united British North America will be a more effective counterweight to America's power if you and all the colonies here band together. I'll even bring some of my newer colonies over to meet you and perhaps they can join up."

"So you want me to do exactly what America did to you almost one hundred years ago," Canada clarifies, a slight edge in his soft voice. "You want me to leave you."

"I want what's best for you, Canada." Britain stands up, adjusting his tie. Canada stays in place, his violet eyes on the teacups resting on the table between their chairs. "So, by all means, start talking with your friends about becoming a more unionized country, savvy? Give the idea a bit more thought and see when you're ready."

He heads for the door, back straight as ever and his steps echoing on the hardwood floors. His hand touches the doorknob, but Canada's soft voice stops him.

"You would fight for me if I was America, wouldn't you?" he whispers. Britain clenches his jaw, opens his mouth, then closes it again. He doesn't turn around. Canada continues with a sigh, "I get it. You probably didn't want me anyway. The only reason you started taking care of me is because France chose to hand me over. He forced you to. That's all."

"Canada—" Britain starts, turning around.

Canada shakes his hand towards him in a dismissive motion. "It's fine. Just go. I'll talk to the colonies," he says, turning his chair away so that only the back of his head is visible to Britain. "Bye Arthur. Talk to you soon, maybe."

Britain hesitates once more, sighs, and opens the door. "Farewell, Matthew."

He disappears, shutting the door behind him. Canada puts his head in his hands, a tightness in his chest.