For those who are wondering, 'je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai' is French for 'I want to have it, and I will have it', or in the case of this story 'I want to have him, and I will have him', since we're referring to America the personification.

You may want to listen to the song that inspired this story in the first place: "L'Amérique" by Joe Dassin. Now, I haven't found any English translations of the lyrics, but I will happily send my own translation if you find yourself interested. Anywho, since this singer is still so well-loved here in Quebec, I thought to myself 'holy crap! I should totally write a story where Canada sings to America. And what better than this song!' And with this I then promptly realized how much I needed this. And so here is the result.

Disclaimer: As my brother would say: Nah, brah. Don't own.

A/N: America x Canada…. I just love these two so so much. Need I say more?

Fair warning, the day I began writing this story was December 28th, 2016. As such, note that some of the (political) references in here are over a year old.

Enjoy!

Je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai (I Want to Have Him, and I Will Have Him)

"L'Amérique, l'Amérique, je veux l'avoir, et je l'aurai… "

Alfred faltered in his step, his ice cream cone almost slipping from his hand as the familiar lyrics reached his ears.

He pointed a trembling finger towards the stereo system sitting on a shelf at the back of the old-fashioned ice cream parlor. "Who… who is that? The singer. Who is he?"

The young woman working behind the counter paused, expression confounded and index finger poised over the 'enter' button of the cash register, before lighting up in understanding. "Ah, you mean Joe Dassin! He was an American-born performer who sang most of his songs in French." She then closed her eyes, an appreciative smile gracing her lips. "Very popular around here, let me tell you. His songs are well loved to this day. I like to listen to his music during my shifts," she explained with another pleasant smile.

The American simply nodded in acknowledgement, face devoid of emotion though internally a mess of feelings. Briefly thanking the human, he made his way out of the shop and into the streets of Montreal, dazed and conflicted.

Again, those same, haunting words.

Truthfully speaking, he had heard the song before, at the time it first hit the charts back in the early 70's. He had loved it immediately; how could he not? The song was about him, dedicated to the very essence of his being, the beloved country he owed his existence to. It spoke well of him too, he knew; he had consulted France for an exact translation, of course – to which the latter had gladly obliged at the price of a few sneaky gropes to some firm, all-American derrière.

Despite it all, for the last decade or so, the song had begun to strike a cord deep within himself.

For the life of him, he could not remember when exactly it had started, but someone had begun to sing those very lyrics whenever the nations got together. It usually came as a lingering whisper echoing down the hall after the end of meetings. Sometimes, it would be crooned directly into his ear, but no matter how fast Alfred turned around, the person behind the voice would have disappeared, gone before the American could even react.

Most times, the individual's tone of voice was mournful, laced with longing. But sometimes… sometimes it was daring. Raspy and sensual and passionate to the point of making Alfred's breath hitch, to the point of making the world's superpower bite his lip in a desperate attempt to retain the groan that would start low in his throat from passing his lips.

And for the past half-dozen months or so, despite the lyrics being in French (a language he curiously did not speak considering Louisiana was one of his states), Alfred would wake up every other morning with the song's words on his tongue, practically forcing their way out of his yawning mouth.

…Alfred wondered if the mysterious singer knew just exactly what the song was about: visiting, discovering, exploring, wanting America… leaving everything behind whether it was friends, family or possessions just to go to the New World dream that was The Land of the Free and Home of the Brave.

Alfred hoped, if not for his emotional sanity, that the man – because this Phantom of the Opera-esque singer of his was most definitely male – did.

Making his way down the corridor toward his hotel room, the remainders of his ice cream cone still clinging visibly to his chin and mouth, America almost jumped out of his skin when someone suddenly burst through a door not even a foot away from where he was walking.

"I don't think I can do this anymore. It's been years, and for what? He's not –"

"Mathieu, mon cher enfant, do not be hasty. L'amour est quelque chose qui ne doit pas se faire forcer. Sois patient, et tu verras bien que –"

"No! I don't think I can keep this up. I just can't," Canada interrupted, a pained grimace marring his fair features.

Francis' previous stern expression softened in sympathy. Raising one of his perfectly manicured hands, he brought the visibly troubled North American into his arms, stroking his former colony's honey hair. With a kiss to the Canadian's temple, he calmly explained, "J'en suis conscient que c'est difficile. Mais, je crois que tes efforts vont finir par porter fruit. Tu dois avoir confiance en toi-même."

"Mais papa, c'est juste que j'suis tanné d'attendre. C'est ça l'affaire. J'en peux tout simplement plus."

"Matt?"

Both Canada and France froze on the spot as they realized that they were in the presence of a third party.

Equally as frozen, the American could only stare, frowning in confusion.

Untangling himself from the Frenchman, Matthew was the first to break the awkward silence, "Al? Uhm, what brings you here?"

The frown on America's face only deepened, though this time in suspicion (and some well-hidden concern). "My room's right up ahead. I was just on my way there," he explained slowly, hesitant. "What are you –"

The Canadian suddenly clapped, voice uncharacteristically loud as he interrupted, "OH, that's right! The G7 is taking place here in Canada this time. Oh man, sorry bro but I must have forgotten for a sec that you were a part of it. Haha! Silly me, right? Okay, well it's been a pleasure bumping into you. Though now I really must be going, kay? Buh-bye. Oh, and by the way you've got something on your chin." And with those last – albeit rushed – parting words, Canada practically bolted.

Staring after his Northern neighbour's retreating figure, he used the back of his hand to wipe his face clean, asking the remaining nation upon the same occasion, "What's up with him? D'you guys have a fight or somethin'?"

France was quiet for a moment, as if thinking over his response, before he finally answered, "Just a mild disagreement. Nothing too dramatic." Then, with a graceful nonchalance only the French nation could pull off, he offered, "Would you like to come in? I have wine…"

Alfred eyed the Frenchman warily, before conceding. "Good wine?"

The European's lips curled into a small smile, his ocean eyes twinkling with hidden mischief (in that Alfred failed to identify it). "But of course. Only the best there is. I am France, after all."

"I fucking hate that song. Turn. It. Off. Pleeeaaaase," Alfred whined more than enunciated, cheeks flushed and breaths constantly interrupted by hiccups as the fermented grape juice had its wicked way with his system.

France simply cocked an eyebrow while he continued to swirl his wineglass under the light, admiring the liquid's lovely garnet hue. "Quelle musique? I hear nothing."

The American huffed, rising clumsily to his feet. "Sorry Francis, but I'ma destroy your radio. Help me find it, wouldja?"

The Mediterranean nation finally took his eyes off his prized wine, leveling his gaze with Alfred's. "I do not have a radio. Nor has this hotel provided my room with one."

"Lies!" America immediately cried out with a hiccup, frantically pacing the area. He then paused in his actions, contemplative, before yelling with renewed vigor. "Then it's a gramophone! It's gotta be that. I could hear it."

Francis blinked, once, twice, ultimately sighing under his breath. "Non, Alfred. There is no gramophone in this room, and that is not a lie." Seeing the American about to object, the Frenchman deadpanned, "Nor is it a conspiracy."

Mouth now shut, the North American sat heavily on the bed, evidently disappointed.

"I swear I could hear it. That song. It's been driving me nuts," he mumbled after a while of quiet thinking, having meanwhile sobered up. Blue eyes then looked up from behind square-rimmed glasses, only to dart away sheepishly. "Maybe I'm starting to get a little too paranoid, huh? I told my boss about it, you know. This one time after some important summit or something. He legit stared at me for a whole five minutes, hard and questioning like… well like a typical boss, before finally walking away. Dude probably thinks I'm going bonkers. All I told him is that there's this creep that's been following me around, singing this one song that happens to be about me, over and over again. And that it's in French."

Francis made sure to hum in understanding, assuring the other that he was still listening upon the same occasion.

America suddenly frowned, taking back his words, "Actually, if I were to be perfectly honest with myself, 'creep' would be the wrong term. I mean, God only knows I kinda like the attention… the mystery, the guessing game that comes with it. He's like my own personal 'phantom of the opera'. Though, maybe not since we're not in an opera house. The 'phantom of the conference building', perhaps? Yeah, I like the sound of that. You would know what I'm talking about, since it is a French love story. One of your best, in my opinion."

France fought back a chuckle at the American's comparison, instead asking, "You are aware that le fantôme does not get a happy ending, oui?"

The superpower waved off the words. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I've only seen the Broadway show about a hundred times. Though personally, I've always thought Christine should have chosen her 'Angel of Music' over Raoul."

"You forget that the phantom is also nicknamed the 'Angel of Death'. He was a murderer, a so-called 'freak of nature'. He terrorized the workers and performers into silence."

"I know that, too," Alfred winked. "But I still would have preferred Christine with him. The poor guy deserved a break. Besides, he loved her way too much to have ever actually hurt her."

This time, the Frenchman allowed himself a small laugh, shaking his head in amusement. "You have a twisted view of romantic love, mon ami."

The younger nation grinned, raising his since-long-ago empty glass. "Cheers to that."

Later that afternoon, after America had called it a day and gone back to his room, Francis removed the small Bluetooth speaker from its hiding place behind the window curtain.

It was a wonder: the way Alfred failed to recall how advanced technology had become once sufficiently inebriated, how he would sometimes blissfully forget in just what century they were in after drinking enough.

…How a certain song could now be played with just a single tap to the screen of his smartphone.

Oh, and let us not forget how Alfred had failed to notice the way Francis had kept unusually quiet, and asked not a single question while the former spoke of his musically-related problem.

France inwardly smirked as he sipped the last of his wine; a gramophone!

Ah. A wonder indeed.

"Hey Matt, you speak French, right? Part of the Frank-o-phony or something?" Alfred quietly asked the next morning, almost halfway through the day's meeting; France was currently proposing ways to both reduce trading inequalities and strengthen the labor market whilst the rest of the G7 members – minus the two North Americans – for once remained respectfully attentive.

"La Francophonie. And yes, why?" answered Canada in a curious whisper, after having looked around to see if anyone else was paying attention to them.

The American smirked. "Great. Because I need you to make a list. Write down any male nation you know speaks fluent French, or that's part of the Franco-funny.

"Francophonie", the Northern nation automatically corrected, only to frown inquiringly when a certain detail caught his attention, "Why males specifically?"

"I have my reasons," the superpower shrugged, flashing the other a winning smile. "So, couldja do it?"

Suspicious violet bore into pleading baby blue, the Canadian nation critically eyeing his American counterpart.

Finally, after what seemed like hours to Alfred rather than a mere thirty seconds, Matthew slowly nodded. "I'll do it." The Northerner then abruptly stilled, his lower lip caught between gnawing teeth and his eyes once more watching Alfred with an almost worried sort of uncertainty, until he nodded one more time as if in an attempt to convince himself of something. "For you… I'll do it."

Why did Matthew seem so sad, Alfred wondered? The Canadian's words had somehow sounded so defeated, so resigned. Yet, all he had asked for was a teensy tiny favor! Just some names. Just a small list of people. It could hardly be that much of a big deal, right? Surely, only a fraction of male nations spoke French, right?

Right?

America found himself oddly unsure, and strangely enough… feeling – only maybe – a tad guilty.

TWO MONTHS LATER…

"Oh c'mon sweetheart, can'tcha sing for the hero? I mean really, I can't fathom your voice being any less beautiful than your face, darlin'," America drawled with practiced charm and one of his sweet, dazzling smiles – all while sneakily snaking an arm around the other nation's waist.

Switzerland stared at the offending arm with a desire akin to bloodlust, his skin florid with burning anger. Without a word, he grabbed the gun hidden in his uniform jacket's inside pocket and fired a single warning shot, effectively causing the blue-eyed North American to 'eep' in surprise before crouching down on the floor.

"Do that again, and I promise you there'll be a bullet in your head. Also, for the record, I don't sing." His point having been made, the Swiss nation allowed himself a barely-there smirk, to then promptly disappear down the hall.

Willing his heart to slow, Alfred rose somewhat shakily to his feet. "Sweet Jesus that was close." With a relieved sigh, he fished a folded piece of paper out of his pants pocket. "Well, one more I could cross off the list. Only…" he left off as he counted the number of unchecked names. "Twenty more to go. Damn."

He then felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, goosebumps leaving trails down his arms. Feeling strangely watched all of a sudden, the superpower spun on himself only to halt almost immediately.

"So, still using that list I gave you, eh?" Matthew inquired from his spot by the wall, a whisper of a chuckle following his words.

It sounded cold, and unusually reproachful to Alfred's ears.

"Mattie, hey! You know, I was wondering where you were. I didn't even see you in the meeting room this morning," exclaimed America with false cheer, secretly wishing he were anywhere else for some strange reason; being around Canada had never felt this uncomfortable before.

Said nation hummed thoughtfully, violet eyes intense and entirely trained on his Southern neighbour, before shrugging lazily. "Well, now you know I'm here. Been here this whole time actually. In fact, I'm always there."

With a grimace, the superpower let an uneasy laugh escape his lips. Why did it seem like there was some sort of deeper, hidden meaning behind Matthew's words? "Ah, I see. Yeah, true that. Okay, uhm… so I'm just gonna head on out now, alright? Maybe get a burger while I'm at it. You know, before the lunch break finishes. Wouldn't want me to come back to the meeting on an empty stomach, right?" Alfred inwardly cringed; he had never acted so plainly awkward in front of Canada either, even during his puberty days – and that had been ages ago.

Before the American could turn to leave, however, the Canadian's next words stopped him:

"If it's of any help, I earlier saw Cameroon eating lunch with South Africa in the downstairs dining hall. Good luck getting him to sing though."

And with that, the Northern nation took his leave, the soft scraping of his well-polished shoes against the glossy tile floor fading down the corridor, heading in the same direction Switzerland had only minutes prior.

America was for once disturbingly speechless, and that in itself was immensely frustrating because Matthew had done nothing wrong beside look at him a little more intently than usual.

Sighing to himself, his eyes glanced over the names on the list for the umpteenth time that day. He secretly, desperately wished to hear that one French song – more importantly, that one voice his ears undeniably craved – echoing down this hallway right this instant. Because that was usually how it went: Alfred would find himself alone and out of nowhere, those stupidly wonderful lyrics and that infuriatingly angelic voice would permeate the air and serenade his senses.

Loathe as he was to admit it, his mysterious singer had not sung to him for a little over two months now. And he missed this phantom of his more than he hated this horribly obvious abandonment.

He eyed the list one more time, before making his way downstairs.

Upon his return to the meeting room, a swift smack to the head was what greeted him.

"The fuck? Who the he–"

"You are such un imbécile, Amérique," France interrupted while shaking his head, facial features contorted in a grave, if not angry expression. "Vraiment, I had no idea you could be so stupid."

America frowned. "The hell are you talkin' about? What did I do now?"

Francis rolled his eyes behind closed eyelids, letting a loud puff of air exit through his nose upon the same occasion. "It is what you didn't do that is the problem."

"Uh… 'kay. Think you can elaborate on that?" he asked, feeling more confused than anything else.

"Non. I've been sworn to secrecy, and I have already overstepped the boundary as it is. All I can say is that the one you are searching for is not on that list of yours. Seek elsewhere."

"…How did you–"

The American was silenced when a finger pressed itself against his lips. Looking to Francis for some kind of explanation, all he received for his efforts was a slow, solemn head-shake.

And then, as if their conversation had never happened, the French nation was gone.

Even after the meeting, America was unable to locate the Frenchman in hopes of demanding the answers to his questions (because really, anything was welcome at this point).

However, a word with England confirmed that Francis had indeed left the conference early due to his country's impending election.

Ha. Speaking of this year's French elections… 'Macron' reminded Alfred of those fabulous little sugar hamburgers he was always afraid of obliterating by merely holding them between his thumb and forefinger. Sometimes, he even got Mattie to make them for him, seeing as they were way too hard for him to even think of attempting. Macaroons? No… that was that (totally awesome, by the way) coconutty cookie his people had invented.

Hmm…

Ah yeppers, 'macarons'! That was the name!

To repeat, those things were so horribly delicate. French food in general just seemed so overly-fancy, and aesthetically pleasing, and dainty, and had he mentioned that the portions were ridiculously tiny? At least, it seemed that way in the culinary magazines he would sometimes browse through when he was bored and the cash register lines at the supermarket were too goddamn long. ('Seriously, did people have nothing better to do than go grocery shopping on a Saturday?' said the hypocrite.)

Well, not like he would know from personal experience; his beloved MickeyD's was an international franchise for a reason.

But back to the main topic at hand, Francis had flown back to his country and was not coming back anytime soon.

Great. The latter's little speech had left Alfred confused and even more desperate than before, if it were possible.

Would it have killed France to just tell him who the hell he was supposed to be looking for instead of playing stupid mind games?

Sometimes, a situation readily demanded, 'To hell with secrecy'! This was one of them.

Either way, maybe he could ask Matt to whip out a fresh batch of macarons (one had to pronounce that with a fancy-ass French accent for it to sound authentic), seeing as the conference was, again, taking place in Canada – Calgary, this time.

But the thing is… his brother had been acting off as of late. It was weird, and made America kind of uncomfortable. Like for instance, all throughout the day's meeting, he had caught Matthew just… staring unwaveringly at him from where he had been sitting across the table.

Not that that was necessarily unwelcome per se, but…

He shook his head. Best not get ahead of himself.

This whole situation was unnerving, to say the least. First Canada, and now France.

Great.

Who was next? Australia?

Before he could jinx that properly, however, a flash of honey-golden curls across the sunlit hallway he was in pulled him out of his reverie.

"Yo, Cana–" he interrupted himself, as instinctively as it had been to shout out his brother's name.

Matthew's gait was… dispirited, if not defeated. He moved with hunched shoulders, hands well hidden within the lone pocket of his hoodie and face hanging low as his feet dragged him slowly down the hall, seemingly unfazed by the scrap-scrap of his dress shoes against the floor. That was the first set of red flags.

The second was his hair. Lord, it was as if it had barely survived a zombie apocalypse! It was worse than a bird's nest – in the sense that a nest at least had a semblance of order! To put it straight, Canada's hair was in complete disarray, which was unlike his neighbour's usual well-groomed, perfectly-combed, 'hi, I'm the good child' style.

Knowing his Northern counterpart as much as America liked to think he did, the Canadian's current state was one of two things: one, something had just gone terribly sour in his country, or two, some other country had roughed him up.

Were either of these reasons responsible for Canada's peculiar behaviour?

That was plausible.

His mind made up, it was then that Alfred decided he would investigate further into the matter.

It was a good thing that he had the following things: a list of all of Matthew's addresses, and a trusty smartphone to give him directions.

Without them, Alfred would have otherwise been forced to give up on his quest, because Matthew was slippery without trying. Never mind when it was intentional.

Still, he worried. Matthew had always been his best bro, his weakness and his strength, the only one capable of making him cry. Him, America the Beautiful, and superpower of the world. The Land of Dreams. The capital-C Chief beacon of freedom and justice for the world.

And Canada, sweet 'innocent' Matthew, had perfected the art of getting his waterworks running. Which was understandable, were one to think about it: Matthew knew just what buttons to push. He knew just what to say to make it hurt, and to make matters worse, Matthew was one of the few people whose opinions mattered to Alfred. If not, the only person whose opinions mattered.

Because when it all came down to it, Matthew was like a gem in a sea of sands. He was America's main trading partner, and probably most important ally. The sole other nation he trusted to have his back when shit hit the fan. If Alfred were a school's jock, Matthew would be the quiet kid at the back of the classroom that no one talked about nor talked to, but ought to be batshit terrified of. Why? Because when things went horribly, terribly, South-in-a-hand-basket kind of wrong, America could (usually) always count on the Cold Front – the Final Frontier – to travel down from the North to restore what was exhausted. And of course, Alfred made an effort to help out when it was Matthew that needed saving, regardless of whether Matthew wanted him to or not (which was most often the former, 'cause Mattie was so damn stubborn).

Needless to say, a relationship of that kind was rare amongst nations. Alfred knew, in his heart of hearts, that he ought to feel grateful for being blessed with such a wonderful neighbour.

But as it stood… he was not. At least, not entirely.

Admittedly, he had always been the type to never be satisfied with what he already had. He always wanted more, even when there was nothing left to be given. Or in this case, when it was unwilling to be given.

It was the latter in regard to Matthew.

Canada's door was unlocked when Alfred happened upon it.

That was the third set of red flags. Or not, considering this was Canada. Tch, low crime rates, as his brother liked to boast about.

Regardless, America was both quiet and careful as he inched past the threshold, not wanting to startle Matt out of whatever funk he was in. He still felt himself to be a creeper, though, but soon reasoned that his bro would never think of him as such, and that besides, he was too good-looking to be a creep.

So when he finally reached the kitchen, where Matthew stood rummaging through the fridge for – what Alfred himself would be looking for were he his brother – a cold one, he coughed.

Which, in all honesty, was a tactless move on the American's part by the way Matthew banged his head on the top shelf in surprise.

"Ostie d'ciboire, who the fuck–" the Northern-most nation blanched when his eyes caught Alfred's, the latter just standing there like he owned the damn place. "The hell do you want?"

No one could blame America for the shiver that slithered down his spine, unprepared for such ice in the other's tone. "Just… checking to see if you're okay, bro."

Matthew yanked a single Labatt out of his fridge (making a point in not offering the other a beer of his own), before nearly slamming its door shut, "Since when do you care about my wellbeing?" He accentuated the question with a vicious uplift of his teeth against the metal lid, successfully uncapping the bottle.

The hell? Wasn't that dangerous? That was what bottle-openers were for, no?

Alfred shook his head from his thoughts, suddenly regretting his decision to follow his brother home when clearly an angry Canadian was afoot. "Easy there, Matt. I was just worried after I saw the way you slouched on over here after the meeting. I thought that maybe you needed som–"

« Tous les sifflets de trains, toutes les sirènes de bateaux,
M'ont chanté cent fois la chanson de l'Eldorado,
De l'Améri– »

"Oui, bonjour?" Matthew was quick to answer, phone already at his ear. He payed no heed to the stunned American in front of him. "Ouais, comme tu as pu l'deviner par toi-même, il s'est faufilé jusqu'à chez moi pour une raison dont j'ignore encore. T'sais, ta manière de tout savoir en ce qui concerne ma vie amoureuse ne cessera jamais de m'surprendre, je crois." A pause. "Ouain, c'est ça Francis, laisse-moi tout seul comme d'habitude…. Oui, oui, à plus tard. Bye, là."

It was only when Matthew pressed 'end call' that Alfred emerged from his stupor. Even then, words eluded him as violet eyes so similar yet so unlike his own turned to settle on him, studying him.

"You were saying?"

America gulped. "Your ringtone…"

"What about it?"

Here, Alfred mentally floundered. He broke eye contact and stared at his feet, very unlike him, yes, but he was marching through complete uncharted waters at this point. This whole situation was just downright bizarre and so unexpected that… "It was you. All this time."

Not that Alfred could see it, but on Matthew's part, the mask of aloofness the Canadian had painted on until then replaced itself with a pained smile. A sad quirk of lips.

The silence that ensued, for what it was worth, was much more informative than any explanation Matthew could have given. It spoke volumes.

"I don't get it. How could it have taken me so long to find out. Why didn't you just tell me?"

A shrug of shoulders was all that answered him.

Alfred was feeling helpless, confused by the reality that he had missed something so obvious. "…But, b-but every time I turned around there was no one there! And the singing would stop once I tried to actively listen for it, too! I swear it!"

At this point, Matthew's fists were curled, trembling with frustration. Ah, the anger had returned. Tenfold, it seemed. "That's because you never take the time to look at what's literally right in front of you, ya blind Yank!"

Here, Alfred had the decency to look somewhat abashed, "Well, in my defence, I would have heard you had you sung. Why would you stop singing? All you had to do was make yourself heard, and it wouldn't have taken me this long."

Matthew took in a shaky breath. Oh God, this was already so difficult for him to admit to himself, but to Alfred…

"I'd freeze," the Canadian began in a whisper, eyes downcast in shame. "I'd be right in the swing of things, singing my heart out to you, trying to reach out to you, but then you'd turn around and look straight at me, with those big blue eyes of yours, and then suddenly no sound would wanna come out. Every single time. I would try, and struggle to even make some type of noise. A shout, a whisper, anything in between, anything beyond. By the time the initial shock would wear off, I would just see the disappointment written on your face, in your eyes, before you would turn back around. By then, I would be too angry at myself to try again, and would walk away, all the while telling myself 'next meeting'. It was always 'next meeting'. But meeting after meeting after meeting, nothing would change. And I just hated myself for it. So much. And then you asked me to make you that list," he spat the word with venom, "and from there I just sorta snapped. Because I'm always right there, right within reach, and yet you still had no clue." He paused, calming himself before he lashed out any further. He then resumed, voice steady, "I made the decision to stop singing to you, even though it really hurt me to do so. I gave up. I mean if you didn't see me then, why would that change if ever you did figure out it was me, y'know? I'm not even all that important to you –" He was quick to interrupt when Alfred opened his mouth to object, "as Matthew. And even sometimes as Canada too, Al. Face it. Smell the roses!"

If anything, the American only looked further scandalized.

Both nations stood still after that, and were equally quiet.

"So, what now?" was asked with a tiny voice, so unlike what would normally be heard leaving America's lips.

Matthew shrugged, his gaze refusing to meet the American's, "I suppose I'll get started on getting over you. One could argue that the past couple of months have already acted as a prelude of sorts."

Baby blues widened with unconcealed horror as Alfred blurted, "You can't!"

"Oh?" With a raised eyebrow, Canada waited patiently for the other to finish, or at the very least justify himself for his sudden outburst. When merely silence greeted him, Matthew inquired further, "And why not?"

It was now Alfred's turn to refuse eye contact, looking at anything aside from Matthew's face.

It was understandable that when merely silence greeted him a second time around, the Canadian made to turn away. "I thought as much."

Like lightening, he was then viciously pulled back as warm, desperate lips crashed against his own.

As he was kissed – rather passionately, at that – he felt hands on him, one at his shoulder, the other cupping his mandible. They clung to him with such fervor, Matthew felt his heart stutter.

It only registered that Alfred's lips had left his own when words were sighed directly into his ear, "Mattie." The hand that had been at his shoulder soon after joined the other at his jaw. "I'm glad that it's you."

Slowly, tentatively, the Canadian covered the foreign hands with his own. "Excuse me?"

Alfred reluctantly pulled back. His eyes sparkled, Matthew thought, as the American repeated, smiling all the while, "You heard me. I'm glad it's you."

"Care to repeat that." Fingers intertwined with each other, bronze a stark contrast to their porcelain counterparts. A beautiful mélange.

"I'm glad it's you, Matt."

It seemed the expression 'third time's the charm' applied here, as Matthew finally froze, fingers that had previously been squeezing and caressing America's own now pushing the intruders away. "Why?"

"Why not?" Confounded by the other's sudden change in behavior, Alfred made to approach when a hand pushed at his chest, stopping him in his tracks. "Mattie, wha–"

"I may be in love with you, but I am not desperate. I will not give myself to you just because I'm the only one that'll have you."

"Whoa, whoa! Mattie, you're getting way ahead of yourself here," America was quick to placate. "I would never say any of what's just been said if I didn't mean it", he swore. "I mean, I would have made it clear I wasn't interested if that was the case. Thing is, that's not the case. God only knows I've always been a little obsessed with you, Matt. Even if it doesn't always seem like it."

Alfred knew he had Matthew's undivided attention at this point, those bewitching amethysts studying him so intensely it was almost maddening. All Alfred could do to distill the heaviness clinging to the air was shuffle his feet, because this was most definitely awkward. So not up to par with his heroic persona, yet…

To hell with it.

"Truth is," he began softly, an attempt to appear collected lest Matthew know how nervous he felt himself to be, actually was, "I've always been a little enamoured. How can I not? Look at you. Look at your land, your people. How could anyone not want that? I know you're far from perfect, we all are, but sometimes I find myself romanticizing you, and I can't help it. I know I'm not the most popular guy right now, especially with how my boss has been going around offending nearly every country on this planet – I mean friggin' Australia? Really? – but that doesn't stop me from hoping sometimes, like when you randomly invite me over for movie nights or the worried calls I get from you after a bad day. To be honest, I just never thought you were open to this sort of thing, let alone with me. For the most part, you get along swimmingly with everyone, and I thought you were content with that, I guess. So, no, it never occurred to me all these years that it could be you. Not that I wanted to get my hopes up to begin with, but you know what I mean." He waved his hands around, trying to get his point across, soon sighing when it was clear just by the other's frown that Matthew needed more clarification. "I'm not saying you're too good for me or anything, but… well, you sorta are, in my opinion," was coupled with a nervous chuckle. "As great as I am and all, I see you as slightly outta my league. But again, that's just me."

That got a small smile out of the Arctic nation. America took it as his cue to continue.

"And God only knows that your singing is legit the single thing I look forward to in meetings. Well, that and seeing you and Kiku and Francis and everyone else, I guess. But the point I'm trying to make here is that for the longest time, I've made it my goal to find out who the one singing to me was, and I'm ultimately, high-key, positively, honestly delighted that it's you, and not some random Frenchie nation I barely know the existence of. I just wish I could have known sooner."

Matthew was chuckling, shoulders shaking subtly with mirth. "But we talk all the time. How did you not establish it was me?"

"Oh, come on!" the superpower huffed. "You can't actually blame me for not knowing! Your voice sounds different in French!"

The chuckling died down, an eyeroll taking its place, before Matthew pulled the American close. "Alright, well it doesn't change the fact that I still want you," he rasped, "and don't bother saying 'no', because I will have you."

"Tch. You've only been repeating just that for years now."

"Oui, mais en français," the Canadian muttered as he drew the other toward his room.

America simply grinned.

(He would totally need to get started on learning French.)

(Well…once Matthew was done with him.)

Story with Ending #1

Translations:

"mon cher enfant" – French for "my dear child"

"L'amour est quelque chose qui ne doit pas se faire forcer. Sois patient, et tu verras bien que…" – French for "Love is something that must not be forced. Be patient, and you will see that…"

"J'en suis conscient que c'est difficile. Mais, je crois que tes efforts vont finir par porter fruit. Tu dois avoir confiance en toi-même." – French for "I'm aware that it's difficult. But, I believe that your efforts will eventually bear fruit. You have to have some confidence in yourself."

"Mais papa, c'est juste que j'suis tanné d'attendre. C'est ça l'affaire. J'en peux tout simplement plus." – Quebec French for "But dad, it's just that I'm tired of waiting. That's the thing. I simply can't take this anymore."

"Quelle musique?" – French for "What music?"

"le fantôme" – French for "the phantom". The word 'fantôme' also means 'ghost' in French.

"mon ami" – French for "my friend"

"un imbécile, Amérique" – French for "an imbecile/idiot, America"

"vraiment" – French for "really"

"Oui, bonjour?" – French for "yes, hello?" Most people here in Quebec (I can't speak for other French-speaking places) answer their phone this way. Or… at least, I do.

"Ouais, comme tu as pu l'deviner par toi-même, il s'est faufilé jusqu'à chez moi pour une raison dont j'ignore encore. T'sais, ta manière de tout savoir en ce qui concerne ma vie amoureuse ne cessera jamais de m'surprendre, je crois." – Quebec French for " Yeah, as you may have guessed, he worked his way to my house for a reason I am still unaware of. Y'know, your way of knowing everything in regard to my love life will never cease to surprise me, I believe."

"Ouain, c'est ça Francis, laisse-moi tout seul comme d'habitude…. Oui, oui, à plus tard. Bye, là." – Quebec French for "Uh huh, that's right Francis, leave me all alone as usual…. Yeah, yeah, see ya later. Bye, now."

"Oui, mais en français" – French for "yes, but in French"

A/N: That chick listening to Joe Dassin during her shift at the local ice cream shop, at the beginning of the story? Yes, that was me lolol. Guilty as charged. Either way, I sincerely hoped you enjoyed this. I've got two more endings to this story on the way. 'Cause I couldn't decide on just one, it seems, so I'll post them all! Why not?

À +,

~SHnM