France keeps his arms crossed over his chest, a glare on his face. Britain stands a solid metre away, the same scowl on his face and his bushy eyebrows knit together in displeasure.

"Honestly, this is ridiculous. I settled here first, therefore, you're trespassing," France snorts, turning his nose up at his rival.

Britain's green eyes widen in astonishment. "Oh, just because you think you're so important with that bloody monopoly and furs. Even they can't save you from your debt, France."

"You're just jealous because I have a new colony here and you don't!" the older country taunts, his voice rising and falling in a sing-song way.

"Why you-"

In the nearby bushes, a little boy pokes his head out from between the branches. He observes the tussling countries, his violet eyes wide with both curiosity and fear. He's surprised by their appearance more than anything, simply because both men look a lot like him. The little nation has seen mainly Aboriginals around here, not so many people with pale skin like him.

He takes a tentative step backwards, trying to slip away without being seen, but he steps on a twig. There's a loud crunch that both the older countries nearby seem to hear. Their heads snap towards the little blond boy, their hands still locked in a shoving battle and their foreheads nearly touching. The boy, young Canada, squeaks in surprise as his eyes widen.

"Hey...is that..." Britain mumbles.

"Mine! Called it!" France shouts, shoving the Englishman away. "You got America, but I'll get this one!"

Canada lets out another surprised squeak and turns tail, dashing away through the bushes as he hears the two men giving chase. His eyes sting from the rush of air, making him squint as he goes faster and faster, his white clothing pushing against his tiny body. It's not that he's scared, he's more embarrassed that he was caught spying on them.

He collides with a solid mass, feeling the wind get knocked out of him as he crumples to the ground. An involuntary groan leaves his lips as something near him lets out a surprised gasp.

"Ma parole! Quelle est la grande idée?" a rather high-pitched voice exclaims.

Canada opens his eyes, staring up into the face of another young boy. The boy has sandy brown hair that's combed neatly, although it's rather long and brushes the back of his neck. His eyes almost match his hair, soft brown in colour and rather soothing. His clothing is similar to Canada's, instantly making the young country feel much better about his circumstances.

That, and he's got the strangest feeling that this boy isn't just a regular human.

"Uh...I don't...I don't know what you're saying," he stammers, getting to his feet and trying to distract himself with brushing off his clothing.

The new boy blinks a few times. "Je suis Québec. Toi?"

Canada looks up at him, wiping his eyes. "Québec?"

Before Québec can respond, the sound of rustling foliage reaches their ears. Both boys jump and let out shouts of surprise as France bursts from the trees, panting yet bright-eyed.

"You...you are fast!" he gasps, breathless laughter leaving him as he points at Canada. His eyes fall on the brunet boy, growing wider. "Québec? What are you doing here?"

"Papa!" Québec says, glee evident in his tone. His smile falls as he looks at his feet, obviously guilty. "Je suis allé faire une promenade. Je m'ennuyais."

"What are you saying?" Canada asks, genuinely curious about the strange language coming from the boy's mouth.

"Oh, he went for a walk since he was bored," France answers, flipping his hair as he smiles. His face softens and he leans down to look at the little boy. "He's speaking the language of love. You have heard of it, non?"

Canada shakes his head. "No..."

"Oh, well I could teach you in no time! You see-"

"France! You bloody wanker, get back here!"

France rolls his eyes and lets out a long sigh. Britain arrives, looking just as breathless and dishevelled as his partner had previously. He points one accusing finger at the blond as he clutches the stitch in his side with his free hand.

"I wasn't done talking about those furs," he snaps.

"I was," France responds coolly. "Now, I am talking with my colony." He says the word as though to emphasize the point that he does indeed have a colony in this land already.

Québec pouts and crosses his arms, kicking a nearby pebble. Canada glances at him before looking to the men that have relapsed into glaring at one another again.

"Um...could I-" he starts, his tone soft and timid.

"You've got enough already! I deserve some fur!" Britain insists.

"Oh hon hon hon, don't make me laugh!" France retorts. "Who's the one with the forts? Answer, not you!"

"Are you guys-" Canada tries again.

"Always with the forts! If you're trying to boost your ego, it's a folly attempt! I've already got thirteen colonies in America!"

"Exactly why you should get out of my spot. Look at my work so far!" France reaches out and grasps Québec's arm, dragging him closer and gesturing to him. "He is magnifique!"

"I could show you a thing or two, Francey-pants."

"Greedy black sheep!"

"Frog!"

"Angleterre!"

"Wine-loving tool!"

They keep throwing insults, back and forth, and each word only serves to make Canada's face turn redder and redder with embarrassment and pent up anger. If they would just listen to him, he could help them...but that's only a maybe.

"HEY!" Canada shouts, causing them to nearly freeze mid-sentence. Québec's face flickers with shock as the young nation's reddened face seems to tone down. "Please stop fighting. I don't like all the noise..."

Both France and Britain fall silent, softened by the country's peaceful plea. They glance at one another, France keeping a solid yet gentle hand on Québec's shoulder.

"Fine, we'll share the furs. We can settle this some other time," Britain suggests, glancing towards Canada for a mere second before reverting back to his frenemy. "Think you can handle a few traders here and there?"

"Perhaps, Britain. We shall see," France responds. He smirks and also casts a glance towards Canada. "But I will assure you, that pretty little thing is my brother."

They wander off, chattering aimlessly between themselves. Québec waves goodbye to his father country before turning to Canada, the blond still looking quite flustered over the exchange.

"Vous êtes Canada? Pouvons-nous être amis?" he asks, his face brightening with hope. When Canada gives him a blank look, he swallows. "Er...friends?"

Canada's face lights up. "I'd love that! Maybe you could teach me that love language."

"Français?"

"Yeah."

Québec smiles. "Oui, mon ami."