Unmarred Interminably (2p Hetalia - Parent Scenarios)

#1; Little One (FACE)

François Bonnefoy; France
1997

François tapped his foot to the ground impatiently, French curses going off in his head as he sat in the waiting room of a hospital. This was all his fault. If he hadn't have been so stupid as to sleep with that lady, none of this would be happening.

The soon-to-be father fidgeted as he sat. Will the baby take my name or hers? Will she want to keep it? What if she doesn't? I can't take car of a baby! I have things to do, stuff to say, booze to drink! I'm so screwed, no matter what. What if I like it and then it gets taken away? Will we have to get married to raise it? What if it's not immortal like me? What if it is?He took a deep breath.

There were only a few people in the dull room. Now François wished he told somebody. Hell, it could've been his 1p and he would still feel better with someone to comfort him. Or just be there. Why couldn't he have swallowed his goddamn pride?

It must've been three hours now. The nearby room quieted down considerably yet François was too busy fretting. That was, until a nurse stepped in front of him.

"Mr Bonnefoy? You may go in now." The nurse seemed disheartened, his tone a little sad. François only nodded and stood, following the man into the room.

"She didn't make it, died of blood loss. We're very sorry, sir," the nurse walked over to a cot. "But we are extremely relieved that your baby is safe and very well. Congratulations on a boy, sir."

Dumbfounded, all François could do was nod, gazing at the little boy sleeping soundly. Leaning down, France placed an uncharacteristically soft kiss on the baby's (s/t) forehead, whispering, "bonjour, mon petite lapin. Bonjour, mon... (y/n)."

Oliver Kirkland; England
1942

The doorbell rang to Oliver's large home. Rain was pelting down on the windows so hard you could barely hear it. At least in this chaos some things don't change for London.

Hesitating, Oliver lit a small candle and put on his dressing gown. He knew it was dangerous, it could be anyone! Jews, someone who's home was destroyed, Nazis, a mob of angry people... Oliver's fears grew worse as he went down the stairs but he swallowed them, Reaching for the doorknob. In the faint candlelight, he could barely see a thing. But he knew the house like the back of his hand, having wondered around it alone on many occasions.

Oliver slowly turned the doorknob, wondering for a split second if it could be Allen, or Mathieu, or François, or hell, even Arthur. His hopes were diminished though, as he saw no one when he opened the door.

Put down, Oliver got ready to close it, until he was interrupted by soft, barely-there whimpers. Looking down near his feet, he gasped in horror. There lay a small, rag-bound bundle in a messily weaved basket. He could only stare.

He was broken out of his trance when a large cry came from the basket. Oliver leaped into action, immediately sliding the basket in, grabbing the bundle with one arm and rushing to the kitchen. Illuminating the tiled room, he quickly searched for milk to warm up. Grinning when he found some, he set to work, still carrying the small baby and rocking it.

When he was done he lit up the lounge and sat down, bottle in one hand, the candle forgotten somewhere along the way. He set down the bottle next to him, unwrapping the rags. There laid a tiny baby boy, no more than two weeks old. Attached to his chest was a rushed note.

To whom it may concern,

I recently had this baby with my wife who passed away because of an illness, but in a world so full of hate I couldn't raise him. Whoever you are, I am sending my brother to give him to you. I trust my brother's decisions. Please raise my baby boy to be a strong, kind person, like my wife.

Thank you and many regards,
a. j. H.

P.S His name is (y/n).

Looking at the small child, Oliver smiles, pressing the bottle to the baby's lips. He happily suckled on it, looking at Oliver.

Oliver smiled and held the baby tighter.

"(y/n)..."

Allen Jones; America
Alfred Jones; America
2017

Alfred was practically bouncing with joy, holding tightly onto Allen's hand.

"Babe, thanks so, so, so much for doing this!" He exclaimed as they neared the entrance to the adoption centre. Allen merely rolled his eyes and let out a small chuckle.

"Yeah, sure. It's no problem." For once, both of them were wearing their simple golden bands around their ring fingers. A lot of the time, they had them off, or hanging around their necks, because to the other nations, they loathed each other. If only they knew what Alfred and Allen (plus the exception of their brothers) knew.

The wedding was quiet. Simply, Allen, Alfred, Mathieu, Matthew and the priest. There were no flashy outfits, no suits, but slightly fancier versions of their usual outfits. For once, Allen didn't have any piercings in, which was all of his own accord, surprising the others. It was in a small, run-down church with no decorations or fancy food. But it was perfect.

Opening the doors, they were greeted by a tired looking woman at the front desk and an old couple a little ways off, entertaining a few of the 3-year-olds and younger. Alfred beamed while Allen simply smiled softly.

"Not yet," he whispered. "We have to go to the desk first." Alfred pouted but walked to the lady alongside his husband.

A small boy sat on a log outside, barely 3. He sat cross-legged, a child'a cross stitch in hand. Sticking out his tongue, he began to work, following the pattern.

He sat far away from the crowd. It wasn't that he was a quiet or shy boy, but more like he didn't want to bother with noise.

He was by the name (y/n), and unbeknownst to him two men were approaching him. Both very loud in different ways. The crimson haired one crouched down, smiling a little (though it was more of a smirk).

"Hey there, kiddo. What's your name?"

"(y/n) Phillips!" He proudly stated.

"Well," the blonde one knelt down. "How do you like the name 'Jones?'"

Mathieu Williams; Canada
1797
(Matt and reader have already met in this one btw)

Cigar between his lips, Mathieu, or Matt, strolled through the forest, Kumjiro by his side. Ugh. Smoking. A horrible habit the young country got from his father, Francois.

As they walked, Kuma sniffed the air. The large polar bear stood on his hind legs and let out a growl, switching direction and walking quickly. Matt quickly followed, having learnt that Kuma's sense of smell and direction was excellent, and that something was that way.

Soft sobbing reached their ears as they neared a large oak tree. Matt glanced at Kuma and they got nearer. Suddenly, the crying stopped. They went around to the other side, and standing there, stretching, was 11 year old (y/n). He was incredibly smart for his age, but that wasn't the amazing reason. Yes, he was young but he was also (dare I say) of dark skin, like his mother. He had lighter skin than her, but only because she had an affair with a white man. He had (e/c) eyes, (h/c) hair and a large smile all the time. But today he also had red eyes and tear tracks on his face.

"(y/n)?" The young boy swung around.

"Matt! How have you been?" He grinned.

"Were you... crying? Why?" Kuma moved forward towards (y/n) and the boy scratched the the bears chin happily.

"You must be hallucinating, old man! And you can't answer my question with another, eh!" Matt rolled his eyes. "Well, I should get back to work. Toni's probably wondering where I am. Bye, Canada!" The boy waved to Matt, grinning and whistling as he walked back home.

Matt sighed and shook his head, speaking quietly, "let's go, Kuma."