Dad!Hetalia+Adult!Reader Twelve Days (One-shot)

Heyo! So, this one-shot is a request but is also a continuation from a previous story called Twelve Months. I'd advise you read that before starting this to get the full experience.

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      They say that weddings are supposed to be a happy time, the best day of your life. It is the start of a new chapter, and (Y/n) had always been scared of it. That was until she had met her fiancé, a man from France’s place. He was a ray of sunshine in her life, not even flinching when she introduced him to her fathers and explained what had happened to her as a child. While she was still not entirely sure if he had quite wrapped his head around how all the countries were living people, he never questioned it beyond the initial reveal after they were engaged.

      So, on that front, everything seemed like it would be fine. After all, Lowell was a sweetie and accepted her as is. He knew that she had insecurities involving being a good mother, especially since the only memories she had of her own mother were fuzzy and held only pain. Her future husband, a psychologist, told her that she probably had repressed them all and the feeling of pain was probably her mind’s way of keeping them repressed.

      He was also able to keep her calm when she was worried about messing something up when it came to preparations for the wedding. When the original tiny quartet of violins and cellos cancelled because they all had gotten horrible colds, he had merely called America, asking if the nation knew where he could find a good group that would be good at their wedding. The boisterous blonde had offered up a group titled simply “The Piano Guys,” who had been taking up the classical music scene in his country and even had earned quite a few gigabytes on his iPod.

      Of course, all the other countries wanted to contribute once they caught wind. First one to hear was England after America ran to his house to brag. (Y/n) had promptly gotten a call and was told that Ed Sheeran, a popular English singer that she loved, was going to be at her reception. Of course, France had to best England, and she soon heard from him and was told to add Carla Bruni to her list for entertainment. Then there was Spain asking if he could bring Enrique Iglesias with him on his way home from America. Romano blabbed to Italy, who told Germany. Suddenly, there was a woman by the name of Lena and another named Giorgia from their countries to sing. When Russia had called her to announce that he had a popular group from his place that he thought she would like to sing at her wedding, she had agreed with a heavy sigh.

      “It’s like a miniature version of Eurovision!” she had complained half-heartedly to her fiancé, who had snorted into his coffee.

      “Certainly seems so, mon amour, but this just means that they love you. Though, who knew that they could get such popular singers all under one roof without protest, let alone without the press hearing a word?” He smiled at her brightly, and she grinned. The only reason France had agreed to the marriage was because he was “beautiful like me,” as the blonde had told her with a narrowed look at the other man. Lowell was a taller man, standing at about 6’0 to her (height). He was a redhead and wore his hair in the same style as Iceland just a bit shorter. He had brown eyes dark enough that his pupils blended in with the eyes, and she often found herself falling into them.

      Like she was now. “Y-Yeah, but you know how they are. They’re practically running the country half the time.” He snickered and nodded, turning back to his newspaper as he looked through the announcements. “Still looking for the announcement, dear?”

      “Ah-ha!” He picked up the scissors from the table and shot her a huge, boyish grin that made her heart stop. “Found it!” He set to work freeing it from its paper prison. She giggled at him and playfully rolled her eyes, but he ignored her. “You laugh, but ten years down the road, I will be one of few men who can say that I kept the newspaper article announcing that I was getting married to the most beautiful girl in England.” He then muttered something under his breath along the lines of “Though, that’s not too hard,” and she snickered. She had always thought that it was just France and England who kept up the French/English grudge today, but after spending time with Lowell, she realised it must be something that continued in the citizens as well.

      He finished cutting out and handed it to her. She smiled broadly and read it aloud. “‘Mr. Lowell Rousseau and Ms. (Y/n) (L/n) will be married September 15, at-”

      She was cut off by the doorbell. The two of them shared a smile as they marshalled their patience. With only twelve days until the ceremony, they had figured it would be any day until the flood of fathers arrived on their doorstep. Canada had called ahead to warn her that she could expect America soon, which meant that the others would be there too or not far behind.

      “Mon fleur!” She crushed into a bear hug by France, who squeezed her with a vigour she didn’t know he had. “How are you? I see you are still as bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked as the last time I saw you. You always look so innocent.”

      “Something, I hope, hasn’t changed at all,” Germany added with a meaningful glance at the red-haired man standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

      “Oh, Germany,” Italy sang sweetly with a smile, “I’m sure they’ve probably had sex by now. I mean, they are a modern couple that is literally a week away from marriage. And they live together on top of that. I mean, why do you think she said she’d have to tidy up the guest-”

      America clamped a hand over the Italian’s mouth. “Not cool, dude. I do not need those mental images.”

      Spain only grinned. “I think they would be cute together like that. At least they wouldn’t do anything kinky like Germany does.”

      Said blonde looked ready to spit. “How the hell do you know about that?!”

      England rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it, Germany. We’ve all stayed at your house at one point. We’ve all seen the magazines under the stairs.”

      “Magazines? Oh, you mean the one with the woman tied up and the man whi-”

      “Wow! You know, suddenly I’m thinking I’m in the mood for crepes from the kitchen,” (Y/n) said, effectively cutting off Russia. “Lowell made some this morning, and we have extras. Anyone else hungry or want something to drink?”

      They all looked sheepish as they shuffled in and then out of her kitchen, heading for the living room with cups and plates. She and Lowell exchanged a brief, entertained look and went in after them. Though they typically didn’t seem to talk much, it seemed their shared history had earned them quite the list of blackmail material. Even after knowing them for about twenty years, she still couldn’t wrap he mind around how odd they were together. At least no one’s fist had started flying yet. She’d never seen America and Russia occupy a room peacefully for this long, let alone France and England.

      Well, she spoke too soon. “These awful English rains,” France moaned, looking out the window as the rain started to fall. “I don’t think you ever see the sun here.” He slanted a look at the Brit currently sipping his tea. “Though, I guess no sunlight could be a good reason why all you Englishmen are so crabby.”

      (Y/n) sighed softly as the green-eyed man sprayed tea, his eyes narrowing at the offending Frenchman. He stood, and France copied him, a small look of entertainment seeping into the blue depths. Lowell looked like he was prepared to come between the two before they broke something… again.

      “Excuse me.” The two blondes looked at the woman, the anger quickly fading away to guilt. “Now, France, Papa, you can definitely be able to one-up England next month since we’ll be visiting Paris then for the World Meeting. However, when we’re in England, I would like you to respect the country at least a little.” She turned to the Brit. “Now, England, Dad, if we’re going to have this meeting, I need you as calm as possible, okay? If France makes you angry, just imagine punching him in the face instead of actually doing it.”

      There were quiet, sheepish murmurs of agreement, followed swiftly with pissed glares shot at the other before they slinked back to their chairs. She smiled, trying to keep from laughing. Thankfully, Spain had always gotten custody of her between the two of them, so they never got a chance to bicker. However, after years of calming them during World Meetings so that they would be more efficient, (Y/n) had practically mastered it. She then stared at the small assemble of ten men. While her seven fathers had attended, Prussia, Canada, and Romano often attended her get-togethers as well, inducted as her “uncles,” so to speak. As if it were a presentation, the ten were given folding chairs set up at small tables, complete with copies of the current details that she and Lowell had already decided on.

      “Now, it is to my understanding that the order of the musicians at the reception will go as follows…” She looked over her copy of the packet. “…Carla, Ed, Lena, Enrique, Giorgia, and then the girls from ‘t.A.T.u.’” She smiled as the other nodded. “And the group from America’s place will play the Wedding March and any other songs while you all are waiting for everything to get started.” She looked over the information. “Any questions or comments?”

      “Oui,” France stated, wearing a pair of- stylish, of course- eye glasses. He looked up at her, and asked, “I see that you would like Italy, Romano, and Spain to work on the small dishes for the reception. I was told I was doing something that involves cooking.”

      She thought for a moment and then looked at the food section before giggling. “That’s because you’re under the section for the team working on the cake.” His eyes lit up, and she restrained the smile that wanted to spread. She looked around at the group. “Any more questions?”

      “When do we see the dress, frau? Your awesome uncle wants to see his great niece in her wedding gown!” Prussia looked impatient, even folding his arms over his chest.

      “Oh, well, we had-”

      “Do we have to make him go?” Romano asked, looking over at Lowell lazily. “You know, for that bad luck thing?”

      “That’s part of the reason, yes-”

      “Well, then go, lad. Go out for a smoke real quick or something,” England said, gesturing for the door with his teacup.

      “If you would give me a moment?” (Y/n) asked, narrowing her eyes at them. They all refocused on her, and she smiled. “Okay. Well, as I was trying to say, the reason you haven’t seen the dress yet is because Miss Hungary and I both decided to… make you guys wait until the day of as well.”

      Silence. Green, violet, hazel, blue, and red eyes all blinked at her once and again and then a third time. It would’ve sent her into hysterics if she hadn’t needed to worry about upsetting them. She and Hungary had both agreed that it would be better because it would be worth it to see all of their faces then instead of letting the buzz die in the next couple of weeks. Besides, she hadn’t even tried it on in the past four days, only slipping into the white garment in the shop long enough to make sure it still fit. Only Hungary, Poland, and the women at the little wedding gown place had seen her in it, and she planned on keeping it that way until the fifteenth.

      However, the others didn’t see it that way. Germany, shocking as it was, seemed to be taking it the worst. For some reason, he was the only one who still saw her as a little girl, and he had actually teared up when she’d told him she was getting married. She should’ve known that he’d be upset with all of this, but she tried to keep calm but telling herself the look on his face in little under two weeks would be well worth it. He opened his mouth to say something, his blue eyes sad, but he was quickly cut off by pandemonium.

      Everyone started talking at once. Italy and France were both sobbing- though both were managing it without looking ugly. Romano was trying to strangle Italy so he would stop crying. England and America both started blaming anyone who wasn’t them. Spain looked sad but was too busy trying to calm Romano. Russia was frowning, the creepy aura that she knew well leaking from his unsettling expression. Prussia was saying that it was a crime to prevent him from seeing his “awesome niece in her gown.” Canada just looked like he was trying to get a word in.

      Though, Germany was doing something that made her eyes widen. His eyes were squeezed shut, his fists clenched into red balls on the table. His entire body was tense to the point of shaking from the pressure. She knew that he was heading towards an explosion, and she started forward to calm him. Only, she was too late.

      He slammed his palms on his table. “Shut up, you idiots!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Obviously, (Y/n) had made her decision and won’t change it just by our input! She’s probably stressed out enough without us trying to change something so important to her, and I for one am prepared to stand behind her on it if it’s what she wants! None of us can be selfish enough to try and take her wedding to make it ours! It’s their special day, and all we’re there for is to support her and make sure everything goes smoothly!” He shot them all evil glares, his face red from yelling. With a final slam on the table, he continued, “Now, we will go back to asking questions one at a time, or the offending party will be excused to the kitchen and will be banned from any further planning! Apologise to fraulein, and do not make me yell at you again, arschlöcher!”

      He sat back down, and (Y/n) had to hide her snicker behind her hand as faint, guilty murmurs were directed her way, shame filling their eyes. She waited until she had control again before releasing a deep breath and looking at them all with a forced impatience. Lowell excused himself as he obviously shook with laughter. She waited until he was in the hall and she had everyone’s attention before sighing.

      “Now, any more questions?” She watched in veiled amusement as Canada tentatively raised his hand. “Yes, Canada?”

      “Um, I was just wondering who was giving you away after you walk down the aisle. I mean, will just one person get the role or-”

      “Pfft, obviously it’s going to be me, the hero, who will give her away.” America rolled his eyes at his brother. “Who else would do it?”

      “America, you twat, think before you speak. You’re too sloppy to be seen with her. You’ll probably cover her in McDonald’s grease.” Arthur fixed his sweater. “Now, a gentleman such as myself, should accompany her, of course. I’ll gladly do it, since none of the rest of you are gentlemen.”

      “I do not be thinking that is the way it should go.” Russia looked at the Englishman like he was talking to a small, simple child. “It obviously should be me, since I am large enough to scare away anyone who would dare harm her.”

      “Aw, but the little chiquita would look so much better if she went with me. Besides, you all are too stiff. She needs someone who can be funny enough to ease any of her worries while she approaches her future husband.”

      “And I bet, tomato bastard, you think you’re just the man to do it, huh?”

      “So, Romano, you’re so smart! That’s exactly what Boss was thinking!”

      “Well, stop thinking it, idiota, because I’m giving her away!”

      Thus, another explosion of sound erupted, and this time Germany even joined in, arguing heatedly with France and America. She turned to accept the cup of tea Lowell handed her, and a small sigh escaped her. Despite the deafening argument around her, her focus was suddenly on the arm wrapped around her waist, hanging low so that he could draw her closer to him. His lips pressed firmly to her temple, an assurance and a beacon of calm.

      After another sigh, she took a sip and murmured, “This is going to be a long two weeks.”

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

      She looked down at the dress. White taffeta fell in waves down from her hips, covered in white lace from France. She had gone with a more simple dress- sweetheart neckline, puffy skirt, lace, and a single rose embroidered on her side with tiny white beads- that concentrated on complimenting her figure instead of complimenting her wealth. Her (h/c) locks were left down in tight ringlets and tucked under a short veil that only reached to her chin.

      Poland smiled at her as he tied the scrap of ribbon around her waist. He had helped her think of what image she wanted for the dress, using his surprising but not unbelievable knowledge of fashion trends to lead her in her search. With a small smile and then a playful slap on the butt, he left to go get her dads and uncles.

      Miss Hungary stepped back from the small, portable sewing kit and looked at her in the mirror, her green eyes filling with tears. (Y/n) had tried to keep her from crying, but it seemed the woman couldn’t stop. So, instead, she pulled the younger girl in a hug and giggled.

      “I’m sorry I’m such a cry baby!” She pulled away to smile into a (s/c) face. “I know that we all didn’t raise you personally, but it almost felt like it. After all, I know I got to see you a lot while visiting other countries, and you were always so open during World Meetings.” She wiped the moisture under her eyes and chuckled. “It seems like it was just yesterday when you were as high as my waist.” She made a motion at her hips with her hand to demonstrate. “Now, bogárkám, you’re getting married. To a Frenchman, but you know, you can’t help who you love,” she teased.

      The girl playfully rolled her eyes, giggling as well as they fussed over making sure the dress fell right this place and that place. While the two were lost in their conversation, the door opened, and an army of men fell in to add to the chatter…

      …which soon became silence as they all looked at her. They look at her in an array of shocked expressions. Wide eyes blinked at her, taking in the sight and not saying a word. She’d never seen them so speechless, so completely blank, for so long. They just stood there, staring, mouths wide open, faces blooming with a blush.

      “Are you guys okay?” Hungary asked around her snickering.

      And thus began the waterworks. The more manly ones like Germany, Romano, and Prussia only let a few, slow trickles slip down their cheeks, while Italy, France, and Spain openly wept. The other four were in the various stages between. America was silently sobbing, Russia was letting out a small whining noise, Canada left the room, and England was crying while mumbling to himself to have a “stiff upper lip.”

      She could’ve laughed but she was crying a little, too.

      That meant, when Poland came in to make sure everyone was ready for final preps, he was met with a room full of blubbering adults, all crying in a tight knot while Hungary was laughing hysterically in a corner.

      Ten minutes later, she was standing outside the door with Russia, fixing her veil, pushing her ringlets behind her ears, squeezing the bouquet of flowers nervously. Her heart was pounding like a war drum, the air on her exposed shoulders chilling her and making her (s/c) skin break out into gooseflesh. She watched as Liechtenstein and Wy walked past her, holding baskets full of rose petals. The group from America’s place, led by Austria, was playing some soft little piece that broke her heart. She wondered briefly why she was so worried, why getting married made her so scared.

      Ukraine and Belarus passed by her. They smiled warmly, even Belarus, who had started to accept (Y/n) more and more as she got older, seeing as she was an extension of Russia. Several of the countries had given her questioning looks when she’d asked the two to be her bridesmaids, but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She smiled back to them right before they turned to go through the doors.

      She sensed Russia leaning towards her ear, dressed immaculately in his military uniform. In a small whisper, he murmured, “Why are you so nervous, podsolnechnik? Are you worried over something?”

      “Yes, but I have no idea what.” She looked down at the ring on her finger, her chest tight, before turning towards her dad. “Hey, uh, you’re still up for a visit in November, right?”

      Violet eyes met (e/c), and she saw them soften. “Of course, podsolnechnik. My door is always open for you.” He stroked her hair, smiling softly. “Always.”

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

      Russian winters had been cold, bitter, and even life-threatening, but this ice that was flooding his veins, chilling him to the point where he wished he could scoop his podsolnechnik up and run away with her. She was getting married, and some small part of him was worried this meant that her visits would be less frequent. What if she didn’t come by every November anymore? What if she became too busy and didn’t even attend World Meetings? How would he see her then? His boss wouldn’t let him go to America or even to England. He’d had to practically beg to go to the ceremony.

      What if she stopped visiting any of them?

      The music started in the other room. Those harsh, booming, piano notes drifted in to tell him that the wedding was starting, and he didn’t want to move a step. How could he help give her away?

      With a quick glance over at the bride, he saw fear in her eyes, and his mind went blank.

      Come on. You have to be there for her, da? Help her. You’re her papochka. You have to do this.

      He touched her shoulder and looked in her eyes. “You love him, da?”

      “Yes,” she whispered softly, still looking nervous.

      “And he loves you more than air, da?” She nodded, so he smiled at her warmly. “And you know that there will always be plenty of homes with doors wide open for you as soon as you ask.” He stroked an errant curl behind her ear. “So, why are you scared? There is nothing to fear, podsolnechnik, and if there was I would be killing it.” She chuckled, making his heart soar. “So, let us be going, da?”

      “Da.” She stood on her tippie-toes to kiss him on the forehead, and they began to walk forwards, towards where America stood near in the aisle near the doors.

      He was dressed in a very clean cut army uniform, his eyes bright but his smile sad. He offered her his arm so she could walk with him a few steps before she kissed him on the cheek.

      “Love you, little monster,” he whispered fiercely, kissing her cheek in return. She smiled as they neared where England stood.

      “Look at you, love. I’m so proud of you.” His green eyes were full of hope but also brimming with tears. Though, when he was far enough from America, he whispered in her ear, “Though, I’m glad you’re staying in England for a bit longer. I can still see you whenever I want, can’t I?”

      “Whenever you want,” she assured them as they approached the grinning Spain.

      “¿Cómo puedo darte a él?” he whispered in a sad voice as she came to him. She smiled sadly but squeezed his arm when she took it. He was warm as always, and her heart was starting to squeeze painfully in her chest.

      “Sé que puedes,” she told him in a murmur as they walked slowly across the petals. He snorted but kissed her nose. “Te amo, España.”

      “Te amo, cariñita,” he told her, letting her go to France. She smiled and took the blonde’s hand.

      Tears were filling the blue eyes, and she could help it when a small, sad sound came out. She rubbed his arm as he sucked in air. In a small, strained murmur, he told her, “You look très belle.”

      “Thank you, Papa.” She laughed a little to ease both of their nerves. “Don’t forget. You can see me whenever I want, and I’m even marrying a Frenchman.”

      He seemed to brighten about that. “Oui, always better than one of those Englishmen.”

      They were still giggling as she walked over to Italy. Though, she immediately sobered up when she saw that his face was vacant from its usual smile. His eyes were even open, looking straight at her as she came to him. He kissed her hand when getting it and only smiling a little when she did.

      “I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful bride,” he murmured. His face split open in a wide grin. “You’re such a bella, bambina.” She smiled warmly, reaching up to straighten his bowtie. “Ah, grazie.” He looked up to the pulpit. “You might need to fix his, too. Whoever his best man is didn’t do a great job.”

      With that, he handed her off to the tall, blonde man who looked like he was prepared to break arms. His blue eyes were sharp and sad, almost as if the entire ordeal was painful for him so he was prepared to add some physical pain to someone else. He extended his arms to her, an offering to walk the last few paces with her.

      “Vati.” He looked over at her in shock, so she just smiled brightly at him. “I’m not nervous anymore, vati, so you shouldn’t be anymore, either.” He swallowed painfully but nodded. “I’m still the same girl you took in all those years ago. I’m still going to be your little girl.” She left him with a small kiss. “You’re gaining a son, not losing your daughter.”

      She turned to Lowell, who looked about ten shades of nervous, and she stepped up to his side with a bright smile to reassure him. Very lightly, she fixed his bowtie and used the leverage to kiss his cheek. He turned red but grinned.

      “Ahem.” They looked over to see the pastor opening the book and turned to him. “Dearly beloved, we be gathered here today…”

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

      While the happy couple were dancing, seven men sat at the bar, all nursing a beer or something that had a good dose of alcohol in it. Seven pairs of eyes were fixed on the (h/c) head that floated in and out of the crowd to a slow song sung by the woman from France’s place. Seven drinks went back as they saw the groom steal yet another kiss.

      Italy was the first to sigh. He turned to his friend, tears in his eyes. “Germany, I’m happy and sad at the same time. How is that even possible?”

      The blonde only sighed and took another draft of his beer. “I’ve been trying to figure out the same, Italy, so I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

      “She’s so gorgeous,” France said with a sigh. He sipped his wine before turning to England. “We did well, didn’t we, Mouton Noir?”

      “Surprisingly, yes, Frog, even with all of her chaotic parents, she turned out brilliantly.” The Englishman was still coherent, which meant he obviously hadn’t gotten too deep in his cup yet.

      “Hey, dudes, I helped raise her, too!” America pouted for a second but then sighed. “Though, I have to say I wish she was still a little girl.”

      “Sí, I must agree with you there, amigo,” Spain said softly, resting his head on Romano’s shoulder. Typically, the Italian would’ve argued with him, but he was still a bit shell shocked at seeing the little girl, who had told him she loved him for him, get married. So, instead of getting angry at Spain, he simply wrapped an arm around his older guardian’s shoulder, wondering if the man had been this heart-broken when Romano had left.

      “She is truly a sunflower.” Everyone turned to Russia, who had paused to take a shot of vodka. “One day she is a tiny seed in the ground, and in no time she is tall and powerful and beautiful.” He smiled sadly as he filled his glass. “Now, we must be the rain. Even if she has a gardener to take care of her and keep the weeds out, we will stop by every so often to make sure she is still how she should be.”

      They all stared at him, letting the words sink in, before Prussia, who was unusually tame, raised his stein and smiled. “I’ll drink to that.”

      “Aye, so will I,” England agreed, raising his tumbler.

      “Oui.” Up went a wine glass to the mix.

      “Germany, this looks fun! Raise your beer! Raise your beer!”

      “Ja, it’s raised, Italy. Calm down.”

      “Don’t worry, the hero will add his drink to the mix.”

      “Prat, you’re lucky we’re in England or you wouldn’t even be drinking.”

      “What?! I’m over two hundred years old!”

      The rest of the table chuckled, almost all of them so much older than that.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

      (Y/n) looked over to see her family toasting, smiles on their faces. She couldn’t help but grin as she poked Lowell and got his attention. He looked over to where she was pointing and chuckled. Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, “Looks like they’re celebrating. Better than fighting, non?”

      “Much better than fighting.” The dance changed, so they exchanged smiling glances. “Father-daughter dance. I guess they’ll have to do a couple rounds.”

      The group at the bar had started chatting, looking over at the two of them with proud looks in their eyes. She broke off from Lowell with a kiss and started towards the table. Her heels clicked against the marble floor, and she smiled at Germany.

      “Time to dance, guys!” she said with a grin. “Old man’s first!”

      “What? Out of all of them, I’m one of the youngest-”

      “Oh, whatever, Germany, go on!” Italy cheered. “Am I next, bambina?”

      “Yeah, and then me!” Romano said.

      She laughed as she left the table, letting them decide who was next and focusing on dancing with the tall German. He smiled at her and kissed her forehead as he settled her in to start the dance.

      Three hours, six artists, and about six hundred dollars’ worth of liquor later, Lowell and her were sneaking out the back of the reception, bound for their apartment to get their bags for the flight to Australia, all ready for a two-week stay in Melbourne and Sydney.

      “Oh, I see how it is,” a voice called from the door as they neared the car. Turning, she saw Hungary, her green eyes sparkling mischievously. “Going to go on a honeymoon without first saying goodbye.”

      She hurried over to the brunette, arms open wide to give a hug goodbye. The woman enveloped her in her arms, laughing quietly under her breath as she squeezed the life out of the new bride. They pulled away to grin at each other, and (Y/n) kissed Hungary’s cheek.

      “See you in Paris.”

      “See you in Paris.” She pulled away and started walking back to Lowell, but Hungary touched her arm. “Oh, and take pictures or those guys will never forgive you.”

      She nodded emphatically and laughed. “I will.”

      Hungary watched in amusement as the young bride made her way back to the car, her husband holding the door for her. The two talked a bit once they were inside but exchanged a few kisses before starting the vehicle and taking off. The brunette waved them off with a smile and stood until they were long gone.

      “Hungary, what are you doing out here?”

      She turned around. “Oh, Austria. Hi.”

      He gave her a soft smile. “Watching them off?” She nodded, so he walked closer, shrugging his coat off to slip onto her shoulders. “How they grow.”

      “Indeed.” They stood there for a bit longer, staring at the stars. She remembered being married once, remembered the day like it was yesterday, though it hadn’t been quite like this. While countries married according to the politics of their countries, humans typically married for love. They got married, had kids, and grew old together.

      She let out a shaky breath and turned to Austria. “Come on. Let’s go back inside so we don’t look suspicious when those idiots see that they’re missing.”

      As if on cue, she heard England yell out, “Where the hell did the happy couple go?!”

      The two older countries exchanged glances before laughing and heading back inside to record the ongoing havoc.