At a nearby café, simply across the street from the conference hall, the four countries sat in the soft lounge chairs and drank their respective drinks; Germany grudgingly taking a black coffee, France sipping on a French Vanilla Latte, England drinking an Earl Grey tea, and you chugging down a chocolate milk [which had been a hassle to get, with Arthur grumbling about health].
"Zo, how long has [y/n] been… ill?"
The silence was broken as a certain blonde nation prompted the conversation. England cast a gaze towards Francis, whom got the message and ushered you over to a little play area for little kids such as yourself.
"She's been sick since I found her wandering in London."
"Vhy was she zere?"
Hesitation filled the silence before Arthur checked his phone.
"Ah, her boss was in town to ask about political relations."
"And vhat vas decided?"
"…Blimey…  We haven't quite decided yet. It says here, in his darned email, that my boss hasn't finished agreements about a steady trade between [y/c]… it says it's vital to further economic development."
There was thinly veiled rage in the poor man's emerald eyes as his fingers tapped out the speedy reply. Though he had brought his phone, it hadn't occurred to the English nation that perhaps his boss had sent him a message regarding the new country in his care. New hope bubbled up in his chest, and a smile etched across his face as his boss replied speedily.
"Vell?"
"He'll go through with the trade agreement!"


--
Four Years Later [9 Years old]
--
[e/c] eyes clashed with green as you met Arthur in a stern staring contest. You didn't waver, your keen gaze picking out the weakness in your guardian's eyes. He was crumbling; he was unable to keep up with this. You knew it, and you were going to wait it out.
You brought up an event that you barely remembered, four years ago, when he had said that he wasn't your father, and he wasn't your big brother. You couldn't even really call him a guardian until you were around the age of six in human years.
There was hurt in his face, but stony stubbornness was trying to hide it. He was trying so hard to avoid the topic, so hard to try and keep him detached from you. Francis had told you about how America [that damn capitalist pig] had broken England's heart and fought against him just to get independence. But, when you spoke to Uncle Mattie, he told you that Canada had separated without much hurtfulness, without much war.
So now the question remained hanging in the air, unanswered and unknown to you.
'You're always afraid I'm going to leave you, but what if you leave me? What if you hate me as much as Russia? What if you don't really love me?'
Warms, familiar arms enveloped you in a hug, and by the shaking of your shoulder and the haziness of your [e/c] eyes, it was obvious that you were as afraid of the answer as you were the actual answer. The soft smell of tea and stiff clothing was one of home and comfort to you. The old feel of the militaristic clothing almost lulled you in sleep, and the hushed answer was almost inaudible to the world, but the words rang to you clear as a bell.
"I'm never going to leave you- I'm your father and I love you."