A/N So this is my first fanfiction and I have *no* idea what I'm doing XD If all goes well it'll be a four-shot, but I might not get that far. We'll see.

Title is shamelessly stolen from a Kevin Rudolf song of the same name.

Warnings: mild language, miniscule amounts of one-sided UKUS (i.e. England being a paedophile /shot). T rating is just to be safe; it's probably more of a K+.

**EDIT** Never thought I'd have to say this, but if you want to use my work in your own story, please ask me first and be sure to give me credit in a disclaimer somewhere ^^"

**EDIT 2** I saw someone comment quite negatively on the story of someone else who used the concept of world meetings, so let me just clear that up here. I am aware that the UN did not exist in the 18th and 19th centuries. "World meetings," as I use them, are not UN meetings. In the same way that Hetalia portrays countries by personifying them, I use world meetings as a way of "event-ifying" the world stage as a whole. Please pardon my artistic liberty.

Chapter 1
One Day

January 1805

I broke away from the raging torrent of countries flowing towards the conference room and turned off down an empty hallway to calm myself. This world conference would be the first I would attend as an independent country, and I wanted to make a good impression. England had taken me to a world conference or two when I was smaller, but only as a sort of accessory to his glory, and I knew everyone still thought of me like that. "England's colony." Finally, today, I had the opportunity to show them me as myself.

I adjusted my cravat and retied the ribbon that held my blonde hair back into a short ponytail. I didn't have enough money to waste it on fashion, but I could at least make an effort to look presentable.

Presentable. The word brought back a flood of memories: England on one knee buttoning my waistcoat, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he lectured me on the importance of appearance; England sighing and rolling his eyes heavenward as if asking, Why me? every time I toddled into the house caked in mud; England smiling with approval as he circled me, examining that god-awful suit he had bought me. You must look presentable, America, or else everyone will think I'm not taking good care of you.

I shook my head violently to disperse the memories. It was no use getting sentimental; he wasn't even like that anymore. That England, my England, died that day in the rain.

I took a deep breath and stepped out into the main hallway again, letting myself be carried away to the conference room.

It was an absolutely enormous room, which stood to reason, since it had to hold all the countries in the world. Voices, speaking in hundreds of different languages and accents, echoed against the stone walls, the marble-tiled floor, and all the way up into the high vaulted ceiling. I slipped away from the crowd and leaned against the wall, scanning the sea of faces.

There weren't enough seats at the vast oak table for everyone; therefore, seats were reserved for only the richest, most powerful countries. Several were already sitting down, and England was among them, smoking a fragrant Indian cigar that sent a steady blue-grey thread of smoke lazily spiralling up and entangling itself in the crystal chandelier. I could hardly look at them—England, France, Spain, Netherlands, and the rest—in all their finery without feeling a pang of jealousy. One day I'd be able to sit up there with them instead of back here against the wall. One day I'd be a superpower instead of a collection of rebellious colonies that no one expected would add up to much. One day I could lean back in my chair and prop my feet up on the table like they were, smoking and making idle conversation and generally not giving a damn. But one day, when I would be as powerful as they were, I wouldn't walk all over people like they did.

I was snapped out of my daydream by a rough hand on my arm. It gripped me hard and began dragging me along the wall to the nearest corner. The exotic, earthy scent of Indian cigar gave away its owner's identity even before the heavily embroidered red overcoat did. I must have missed the moment when he stood up. I didn't even have a chance to regain my balance before England shoved me into the corner and pinned me there by my shoulders, his cold green eyes boring into me.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he hissed around his cigar before sparing one hand to remove it from his mouth and extinguish it on the wall over my right shoulder. Ash spilled onto my clothing and he flicked the cigar butt away before seizing my shoulder once again.

I set my jaw and stared evenly back at him, refusing to be intimidated. "This is for all the countries in the world, isn't it? I'm a country."

He shuddered visibly at the word, as if it physically pained him to hear it. "You don't need to be here. Get out."

"I can't leave if you're pinning me here."

He didn't care much for my logic. His eyes narrowed to luminescent green slits of fury and his hands tightened their grip on my shoulders. "The moment I release you, you shall walk to that door, leave this room, and never come back. Am I understood?"

No! I was thinking. This is my first chance to prove myself as a country, and I won't let you take it away! But on the other hand, I didn't like the look of that flintlock pistol in his belt. He could whip it out and shoot me right here in the corner, and no one would dare defy him.

No. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He'd proved that before. Somewhere under all the fancy clothes and the harsh words and the cold demeanour was the England I used to know.

Give me liberty or give me death.

"I can't."

His expression was completely blank, which was scarier than if he had immediately burst into a fit of rage. "...What?"

"I can't walk away from this now. I want to grow up strong and"—already England was rolling his eyes, and I could tell he was thinking, Not this again—"and powerful and great. I want to be someone that people can look up to. I want to be a hero."

England was beginning to get that dangerous bored look in his eyes, tilting his head ever so slightly to one side as the corners of his mouth slowly curled up. I knew that look all too well, although I wasn't sure exactly what emotion it conveyed. It was something akin to anger, but not quite; his anger, despite being loud and often violent and spiked with a healthy dose of cursing, was far less frightening than this. This expression spoke, as clearly as if he had been speaking aloud: You are mine, America, and I love you, and to make sure you don't forget it I shall put you through the most excruciating agony that I can dream up.

I had to think of something, fast.

I threw my dignity to the wind and hastily added, "Like you."

His dangerous smile immediately disappeared, replaced by a look of surprise with a tinge of disbelief. "I'm not..."

"Please, England. I left you because I wanted to grow up like you, but you wouldn't let me grow up at all." God, I couldn't listen to myself. How pathetic, spouting all these lies just to save my own skin. One day I'd be stronger than this. "Please."

His expression softened and he let go of one of my shoulders so that he could gently stroke my face with his gloved fingers. His touch made me shiver, but I tried to suppress it. "My mistake was not that I was not letting you grow up," he said, quietly and kindly. "It was that I tried to force you to grow up too soon. Wanting you to help me pay debts that I incurred fighting your wars... expecting you to take responsibility for your actions... you misunderstood it all. You thought I had changed into some tyrannical monster, but I was just treating you like an adult." His thick eyebrows lowered and the line of his mouth hardened. "You proved that you were unable or unwilling to handle the responsibilities of adulthood; therefore, I see no reason why you should be allowed to enjoy its benefits. You are still a child."

I swallowed hard and forced myself to meet his eyes. "That isn't for you to decide. I'm not yours anymore."

England smiled lovingly and leaned in, sliding his hands off my shoulders and down my arms so that he was pinning my wrists instead, one against the wall on either side of me, with the rest of my body trapped snugly in the corner. Still he kept coming closer, and I could feel my heartbeat quicken as I wondered what he was planning. The combined scent of tobacco, sea salt, opium, tea leaves and fine rum made my head spin. He gently touched his lips to my neck and I twitched, taken by surprise. He had never handled me like this before.

"You will always be mine," he whispered against my skin.

Far from being awed into submission, I felt simultaneously angered and sickened. Before I could think of what I was doing I twisted out of his grasp and pushed him away, then got the hell out of that corner. The few nearby countries who had been watching us with morbid interest hurriedly backed away and pretended that they hadn't seen anything.

"I'm no one's," I practically shouted at him, roughly scrubbing away the hot tears that were rising behind my eyes. "I'm mine and no one else's. One day I'm going to be strong. I'm going to be stronger than you!"

He was watching me lazily, pretending he didn't care, but I knew him well enough that I could see the anger flashing behind his eyes.

"You're not worth my time," he snarled at me, turning away. "I hope, for your sake, that you come to your senses," he added over a gold-braided epaulette before storming back to his seat, his scarlet coat billowing behind him. Countries parted around him like the Red Sea, only he was the all-powerful pharaoh and I was the ragtag collection of former slaves with little more than hope and prayer on my side.