Author's note: Getting to the station and finding out that SNCF has no record of your tickets from Paris to Berlin: not awesome. My mother freaked out which made the French lady feel bad for being a bitch when my mother had asked, « parlez-vous anglais? » (in a very good accent that time I should add, the best French she's produced). Also at some point the SNCF workers realized I understood everything they were saying and was translating for my mother, which was a funny moment to watch occur. We ended up getting a better train for less, but still. Poor Mumzies went through her hot chocolate afterward like there was a war coming and it was Christmas too, which just made it worst in her opinion. Mais, bof, c'est la vie, n'est-ce pas? We still got to Germany in the end. :)

Billet

"What do you mean you can't find my tickets‽"

"Francis," a calm voice from behind says, a large hand coming to rest on the crook of his arm.

"I reserved it!" the French nation exclaims indignantly, his glasses sliding down his nose.

"I am so sorry Sir," the woman behind the window whispers.

"I know, I know." Francis had taken enough trains to know this happened, and he knew it wasn't the poor girl's fault. "Berwald," he mutters from behind his hand, placing his glasses on his head, too frustrated to think effectively.

There's a shuffle where Peter comes to rest under his arm instead, the micronation on the verge of falling asleep. In that perfect French he only uses in moments like these Berwald steps forward, buying new tickets and getting the info for calling to get a refund. He takes the bags, handing his « boyfriend » (a now Peter-approved label) the tickets, and the Swede leads the way out to find their platform.

"No coffee?" Berwald whispers as he sits, handing out the three hot chocolates. With time to spare, and the chill filling Paris's Gare de l'Est on Christmas, warm drinks had been a must. Peter is delighted with the sudden gift of sugar.

"I want to see this Papa!" he says excitedly, pointing at something in his Berlin book.

"In Swedish," the father chides, his arm wrapping about his son's back. Francis follows some of the conversation that ensues before Peter returns to his English travel book, and the full nations to a French conversation. "No coffee?" Berwald repeats.

"Too stressed," Francis murmurs. "What I need is a cigarette."

"If you want to step out…" he graciously begins, gesturing over his shoulder, but the French nation shakes his head.

"Quit."

"Why?"

That one takes a moment to answer. Berwald is so relaxed in his seat as if he is still the Northern king, one arm wrapped around Peter, his heir apparent. His eyes are magnificent behind his glasses, a little more blue today from the sweater Lukas had sent him for Christmas. Francis knows he should relax, shoulders hunched as he leans over his chocolate, grasping it like a life boat. But he also knows he won't.

Berwald sighs as if to repeat himself, swirling his drink in his cup, but Francis had heard him and cuts in to answer first.

"Arthur," he admits quietly, not wanting Peter to perk up at the sound of his brother's name. "He didn't like my smoking and I had been-" He wants to say he had been in love, yet hesitates. This time the Swede beats him to the next thing said.

"Stopped drinking vodka, for Timo."

A lull falls over them, the older men lost in thought, before Peter's head pops up. He looks between them, confused, asking, "What happened?"

What Berwald does in response to that, which is to take in his son before smiling wide, kissing his head and holding him to his chest as he whispers, "Love you Peter," in English, takes Francis's breath away.

As they board the train Francis takes one more moment to look around; leaving the city he's called home for over one thousand years is still difficult for him, despite all that's passed here. The Frenchman's taken aback when two strong arms wrap around his waist, pulling him to Berwald's massive chest. He's warm, so warm, and it isn't just his boyfriend's body strength that's causing Francis to burn up.

"What do you think Peter?" the Swede asks in broken English. "Should we keep him?"

The boys looks at the two for a moment with a contemplative gaze. It occurs to Francis then that the little nation's probably only ever seen Berwald in love (and falling out of love) with Timo, and that Francis, Arthur's once « special friend », is something new. Different. A stranger.

Peter smiles. "Keep!" he declares. Berwald's chuckle shakes the French nation's body. "Allons-y?" the boy asks a little confidently but also a little hesitantly.

"Très bien!" Francis praises and as he gets on the train with the boy, he doesn't miss Berwald's loving look as the Swede takes them in. It's a look of sublime happiness.