You're playing with the big boys [Sealand]

Peter didn't mind the water nearly as much as Russia did. In fact, Peter loved the water in general. When he was younger (and even still now, though he wouldn't admit it), he'd run around outside in the rain when it wasn't so cold he'd get sick and it wasn't thundering outside. He liked water a whole lot, enough for him to swim around in the typically cold ocean water that surrounded him. So he didn't really mind when Russia managed to get water on him, though he did look over at the distinctly less fine-with-it looking man with a slightly incredulous expression on his face. He could have gotten water in something else, something that the water might hurt!

Something like the typewriter Peter was steadily deconstructing from the desk, actually. He had a screwdriver in one hand and was occupying himself when he wasn't talking with trying to take apart and put back together something he certainly hadn't used in a long time. It was a nice memory game. Peter was fairly good at finicky mechanical things. The computer he had in his room was a Frankenstein creation of about three different computers, for example,that other people had been about to get rid of. He got it to run better than any of the three separate computers would on their own. Of course, Peter was all hardware, really; he could build things, but he had to ask Ladonia whenever he wanted things programmed because once Peter got to that point he had no idea what he was doing whatsoever. Ladonia, on the other hand, being part Internet (or something), could easily get the job done, though Peter would be surprised if he didn't complain along the way.

He looked up when Russia spoke, turning back to the man, typewriter keys almost strewn across the desk but actually in alphabetical order if one were to look a little closer. "No, I believe you," he finally said. After all, Russia, if he'd really wanted to do damage, would just be able to do damage. That lead Peter to wonder what he really might actually be after, but probably, whatever it was, it wasn't good. "I'm not afraid you'll hurt them," he admitted, now that his irrationally protective side had wound down a little bit and recognised that Russia wouldn't randomly go hurting people (even if he did hurt people at other times). "I'm afraid you'll try to take them," he said. He paused and his voice got a little quieter. "You- you wouldn't be first..."

And oh, hadn't that been the nastiest argument he'd had with his brother in a long, long time? Peter would easily admit now that it was mostly his fault, but then, he couldn't admit it then, even as his stomach dropped and he began to think that perhaps Arthur had very little to do with the British officials who had shown up and tried to convince Peter that some sort of draft applied to him. He'd just seen red, and he'd shouted, and his brother had gotten defensive, and then they were both shouting about things that had very little to do with the war at all and dragged things back up that weren't meant to be dragged up. Peter had held back tears when he turned around and left. He still felt a bit guilty, and had been trying to figure out how to patch it up, but he wasn't quite certain how to now that he'd cut himself off so completely.

Now Russia was in British territorial waters- or, well, Sealandic, but Peter's territorial waters were basically in the middle of his brother's after they'd been expanded- and Peter was wondering if he'd get to patch it up at all.

He was very tempted to look Russia in the eye and point out that all of his people were his now, and they weren't Russia's anymore unless they decided again. But then again, he was pretty sure he'd made his point at some point along the way, though who even knew with Russia? He thought about saying something before turning back to his typewriter for a moment. He absently sorted parts as he pulled them off into a mess of piles that likely made no sense to anyone but him. Peter was a surprisingly organized person for a kid, but the way he organized things tended to make other people scratch their heads. See, he liked to organize things entirely by shape and size, no matter what the actual function of the object in question was. It made it nearly impossible for anyone else to find things that he'd stored somewhere, especially when things happened like pencils and straws getting stored in one drawer and paper in a completely different one, with Peter oblivious to just how weird that was.

And then Russia spoke and Peter very, very nearly went on a rant about how the man had described his people except, well, that had hardly been the first time he'd heard that line, either. It wasn't like Peter had just ignored the newspaper, or like in his last argument both of them hadn't said things they'd really, really regret. (That happened more than Peter would have liked with his brother, though it had been a long time since Peter had really exploded at the man. In the sixties and seventies, well, that had been a different game altogether, and they couldn't be in the same room without Peter at some point starting a fight.) 

It was the other comment and the room and the tension that did set him off, though. For a moment, there was an expression on his face that didn't belong there at all, not on someone so young. It was a horribly bitter expression, and it was accompanied by a horribly bitter voice that seemed nearly foreign on Peter's lips. "Right. Your 'friends' who you're slowly killing. That'll work well," he said, biting and angry. And then he covered his mouth and swallowed very hard and and his eyes widened considerably, nearly looking teary for just a moment. He turned away from Russia, looking intently at the typewriter parts, his face slightly shadowed. He hadn't meant to say that at all.

"...sorry," he whispered. "You didn't deserve that." He remained looking away. "I'm just sensitive sometimes? I mean, the older Nations- no, not just the older ones, the bigger Nations- none of you really get it, I don't think." He pulled the last pieces of the typewriter apart and paused for a moment, as though he was trying to figure out how to explain his words, how to phrase something he just knew and felt in a rational manner. "It's just, we exist because of our People, right? I mean, with only small exceptions, we do. And, well, when you've lived a large part of your life with only three of them," when you've spent the worst part of your life with none, "I guess you realize how mortal we can really be."

He paused. "You've got to understand, to me- to me, when you all are fighting, I can only watch as you kill each other's People and I think they're killing themselves and they're killing each other. They're dying and I can't stop it. They're just- they're just poisoning and killing each other. And- and it's a horrible feeling I wouldn't wish on anyone," he said very, very, very quietly, "...when you finally just... run out."

He shook himself off for a moment, sorting the parts on the table into piles. "So I guess it makes sense I hate it so much? Ahah..." He laughed weakly before looking back at Russia with a very forced grin on his face and shaking hands. He was shaking a whole lot, actually. "But- but we shouldn't talk about that! Talking about that makes me all sad and stuff, and I don't particularly like being sad!" For a moment he was quiet, and then he looked at Russia with pleading eyes. Change the subject... Please, just change the subject?

Russia did not change the subject.

He did not change the subject and Peter's heart sank for a moment, because he was suddenly remembering that he wasn't supposed to get himself upset while in here, that it was a bad idea to come in here anyway, that just because he'd been fine the past few times didn't mean anything because he'd been mostly calm then. The piles of size-sorted typewriter parts sat in front of him, metal bits on the table, suddenly ignored, Peter wondering if he should just shove the chair back, if he'd start pacing next, pacing and babbling about things that didn't make any sense outside of his head.

He did not change the subject, instead watching Peter with an odd sort of sincerity, as though he wanted to teach something to him that he didn't know. Peter could have laughed. He doubted Russia had ever lived with the fear of waking up again one morning, suddenly blind, unfeeling, painful, and completely alone, everyone having vanished overnight. He doubted he really understood why Peter was such a wreck sometimes, so he doubted that the man's eyes were sincere, not really. He doubted Russia understood why Peter was afraid of being solitary, why he used to cling to his boss's arm and sob when he left the fort, why Latvia had once taken him by the shoulder and asked him quietly 'are you okay?' through his loud smiles and shouts.

He doubted Russia understood what it was like, having your greatest fear being abandonment, because you've felt it before. But Russia, he had his own opinions, and he had his own ideas, and suddenly Peter's eyes were wide as he watched the older man talk, try to explain why he, personally, felt the way he did.  “You must ask yourself if existing merely to exist is all you need.” Funny, wasn't that what Peter wanted to say? He knew better- existing was pointless if there weren't People along with it (he'd never liked being isolated, actually, but he'd cut himself off in hopes that he would change something and wouldn't have to be afraid anymore).

So maybe he was a coward, but he did not want to be alone. Raivis had once told Peter that he was brave, braver than he was, and Peter had told Raivis back that he had to be lying that time, because Raivis had to be braver than Peter. But Peter had decided if Raivis could be brave, he could force himself to be brave too, and if Raivis could be happy, Peter could make himself happy too (besides, he'd promised if he felt bad, he'd remember his best friend, and Peter didn't break promises). He shook under the watch of the older man, shaking with something that he wasn't quite sure what it was, anger and memories, probably.

His eyes widened and his lips parted as Russia suddenly lifted him in the air by the arm, and suddenly Peter's eyes were looking directly into Russia's and they were scared. He heard the words but that wasn't what was sinking in because maybe Peter couldn't really understand, maybe they'd been through different things to different (no, the same) results. His arm hurt and he stared into Russia's eyes and suddenly he just whispered back "My existence continued, too." Because of all the things, all the things for Peter, gifted with too much empathy, to match with his enemy, to feel with the man, it had to be that, it had to be that-

He dropped to the ground in shock, didn't even try to land on his feet. His head swam and his eyes did too. It thundered outside, and Peter suddenly looked wild and scared and he looked around and blood on the sheets and please come back and I hate you and I need you and I'm scared and it hurts and scratch away the walls and let me out, please and why did you leave and wouldn't it just be easier if I just-? echoed in his head. For a moment, a shell-shocked boy sat crumpled on the floor. "...despite everything, it continued," he whispered.

And then he forced himself up. "But someone, one person, at least, would miss me," he whispered to himself, "and I think, maybe, that's enough." His eyes were filled with tears and he was rubbing a bruised arm and he was seeing things that weren't there on the walls and the sheets and all around him but he bit his tongue and drew blood from his palms and told himself to wake up, that he shouldn't have come in here but he had and he'd deal with it, he'd gotten over this, his boss-turned-father and friend-turned-brother had helped him and one day he'd slept in here without rearranging the furniture and without someone else there and even if he wasn't quite fixed it was enough to know someone cared.

He forced himself up but he still wasn't but so okay so he darted across the room quite suddenly and grabbed Russia's hand in a literally bone-crushing grip, had Russia been human, the sort of grip that forced the older man's fingers into a bear trap steel grip, one that reminded Peter that he was there. Peter shook for a moment before whispering "You want your tour, fine, we need to leave. I need to leave, I'll go insane if I stay in here any longer, it's funny how you assume I can't have scars too." He then pushed his weight forward, refusing to let go of Russia's hand, he wouldn't let go of the man's hand, but he wanted to get out of the door. "I'm sorry, this was a bad idea," he added, as though the moment of shell-shocked fear and memory hadn't been enough to say it. "I just- I shouldn't have come in here, not in this state of mind."

But he wouldn't leave until the older man moved.

He was not about to let go.

There's a moment there when Peter's aware, when Peter's aware as he's dragging himself from the ground that Russia seems to be lost somewhere, too. He doesn't know where. He knows it had to have been something that he said. And for a moment, Peter feels guilty. He'd been emotional lately. He'd been a little emotional because he hadn't seen so many of his friends in such a long time, and he really did need them. So he said things he shouldn't have. But what could he have said? What in particular was making Russia's frozen form remind Peter of (memories and blood on the sheets)-

-well... remind Peter of himself, actually.

Some wall breaks by the time that he grabs Russia's hand. Some wall breaks and he decides that there's something a little broken here, and he'd always wanted to try to fix the broken people all around him, even if he wasn't very good at it. Something breaks and Peter needs, desperately needs a friend, and he sees himself so he stays standing there, standing there holding a hand. He wonders what he said. He's worried he knows. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think anyone else has ever felt like that before, even though he knows they have. He doesn't want to think that someone strong could be weak, even if it was someone strong that he dislikes.

Russia's smiles are forced and so are Peter's, in a way. He quietly nods his head. "Okay. Okay. Let's go," he whispers, and with his hand interlocked with the older man's he slips out of the metal door into the hallway. It isn't until they're outside that Peter realizes that he's been practically holding his breath. He locks the door again and he looks at it. He places his hand against it for a moment. It could have been worse, he decides. The only other immediate empty rooms were Michael's and Mister Bates, and he probably would have started honestly crying very quickly if he'd gone there.

He stares at the door for another moment. Even though one of his hands is on the closed door, the other is still holding onto another person. He just needs another person. "Am I?" he asks. "I couldn't tell..." Peter shakes his head. His words aren't biting. They're just- well, they're just something. They're a little honest, but they're also, he supposes, a little sarcastic. Some mix between the two, really, and he's not sure which is winning. Sometimes, Peter said things he didn't mean to say. But sometimes he meant to say things and he hurt people anyway.

Russia had been standing frozen in the middle of the room and Peter had been seeing- he spoke. "...there were nine years. Nine years, eight months, twenty-nine hours, thirty-one minutes and four seconds that I spent in that room, alone. I only really left twice. Twice, I mean, after they all left me. I mean- I mean the fort was decommissioned after the war, and, and I guess that makes sense, but... It- it wasn't fun. I shouldn't have gone in there. I shouldn't have brought you in there. My emotions tend to run a little high." He shook his head. His voice was oddly flat. He wasn't facing Russia. He was still holding his hand.

"I just figured- just figured it would be an empty room. I mean, so that no one could get hurt, but I shouldn't be that paranoid, I shouldn't. I was just- I just wanted to make sure they were all safe. My People, I mean. It's awful important to me that they're safe. I spent a- a- a really bad part of my life with none, after all." He turns back around. He's not sure what to say. He's not sure why he's said that. Maybe it's to make him understand. He feels like he need to explain himself somehow, because he recognized something, and it was something he'd rather not have recognized in anyone, anyone ever. Not the part where he recognized himself- that wasn't too hard. It was the part of himself that he recognized that had broken something and had made Peter's heart change for a moment.

He stands there, completely silent, for a moment. And then he looks Russia in the eye. He doesn't know why Russia froze for a moment. But he can guess. Because he knows. "...I don't know why, but Raivis insists you aren't that bad. I never understood. He has this drinking problem, see, and... and you aren't always good for his self-esteem. But... but maybe I can see that he cares for you, and maybe I can see that you... you don't entirely not care, at least." It's a major concession from Peter, as well as an admission. He supposes he can't hold a grudge against Russia for this, now, but he doesn't feel that bad about it. He figures Russia needed it.

"He helped me, too, you know. He actually made me promise that I'd remember that he was there and that he would miss me when I felt sad. I made him promise that he wouldn't leave, then. I'm not even sure what I meant. I think I was scared he'd try to leave me behind, too, back then. But I've always kept that promise. Promises aren't meant to be broken. So- so I'm a little protective of him, so..." It's only part way through that Peter suddenly realizes that he's trying to apologize. He's not sure why. He doesn't owe Russia anything. Except for, well, except for a lot of yelling and irrational dislike. He doesn't finish, but his eyes get a look to them. They're still rolling with clouds and thunder, too, but the actual emotion from them is something else entirely, something searching and yearning and old and young all at once.

After a moment, his eyes clear.

"Right! Tour! Sorry, that- ahah, I'm not sure what that was... I guess- follow me, I guess? I'm going to call my boss in a minute here, too, just so he knows I'll- well, I and you- will be in there." Just give me a moment to make my voice go back to a normal speed and pitch, make the emotions I don't want to show fade away a little. He still hasn't let go and he hasn't even really noticed. 

He wonders why he feels so understood.

Peter's not certain but when Russia speaks he feels a little better for saying more than he'd meant to say, feels a bit more like it was the right thing to say altogether, and a brief moment of light passes through Peter because he loves broken things and broken people and he loves fixing them, even if he's much better at fixing machines than he is at anything else. There's still a strangely oppressive weight over the two of them, of course, and that was mostly Peter's fault, he figured. He'd messed up. He'd slid himself into a corner and then he'd bitten and screamed out of it. But then, there they were, in the hallway, that place locked in behind them but the emotions never really were.

He does feel legitimately better when Russia speaks, though, because something about the way he says it speaks to Peter. He's tempted to say something else, something he'd been told once, a long time ago, when he'd met his first friend and when he'd rather try to punch his brother in the nose than try to get over their collective problems. "Peter! Don't- don't say that! I- I bet you're braver than I am, after all that, and just because you hurt yourself remembering it doesn't mean anything!" He's tempted to say that, except he thinks that, maybe, that's what Russia's saying to. His face falls into a much less forced smile, and he looks up at Russia, and he nods gratefully. Thanks for understanding, he supposes he's trying to say, though nothing comes out loud.

He does hold the older man's hand tighter for a moment. This was what he was trying to get people to see, and he'd said too much to the older man, he'd said too much to Russia and he didn't even like him, but- but, well, Peter thought that maybe the words had fit anyway. No one deserved to be alone, no one ever, and he didn't like war because it made him- well, it made them all lonely and he wondered if older Nations needed what the micronations did, lying on their backs and counting stars or painting pictures that made no sense together or playing Risk while idly making up absurd supervillain plots to take over the world. Because they were lonely, too, and they could maybe be a family.

Peter didn't much like being lonely, but he had more People now, and there was someone standing next to him anyway. He figured things would be okay.

("...no, no, no! Of course it's not your fault, Peter! Don't ever say that again, okay? Never!")

When Russia starts talking about Raivis, Peter doesn't react immediately with the same sort of defensive reaction he normally would have. It's only partially because he'd just extended a sort of olive branch. The other part is because he's absorbing stories and words and any news of his friends. His face lights up instead, and it's a real glow that comes over him as he hears the words. He walks along next to a man Peter never had the properly healthy fear of that some people did but hadn't really seen eye-to-eye with before and wasn't certain what to think except that he wanted to hear about Latvia.

So he laughed.

"Oh, I didn't know that!" he says brightly. He has absolutely no idea what Russia means by "inappropriately things," but it's probably something amusing. "I mean, not that I have room to talk- I was ridiculous after I first met him. He was basically my first real friend, see, so I kinda went completely overboard for just a little bit there." His face changes into that of a wry grin. "He actually drew the line at my plans to try to sneak into your house to see him. In hindsight, that was probably a good thing? I had no idea how to properly sneak around, then, and it probably would have ended horribly, and when all was said and done Mister Bates would have just about killed me for worrying him like that." He laughed again, and it's not as forced as it was at all. It sounds light and airy. He likes talking about his friends, and he's relaxed his guard quite a bit, quite all of a sudden.

"He's always been better at drawing people than me," Peter continued, well aware that he was beginning to ramble as they walked but sort of hoping that Russia wouldn't mind. "I mean, mine have always been really, um, I guess you'd call it mechanical. I can never do the eyes right. I mean, I can draw them physically right, but they say the eyes are the window to the soul and that's the part they're always missing?" He shrugs. "My friends, of which about a good half are super artistic, this irritates them a lot. And then I do stuff like draw planes and typewriters and they're impeccable because they're machines and if I can imagine building them, I can draw it better, and vice versa, I guess. I haven't had a chance to get one of their ridiculous lessons in a while, though..."

Nope! Steering away from that topic!

"...which is probably good because they all have such different styles?" Peter ends weakly. He's walking, still holding Russia's hand, walking towards the radio station. He's not walking very quickly, which is funny; he probably should get it over with as soon as possible. He also ought to call Jamesie on the phone but he hasn't quite done it yet. He's just enjoying talking at this point.

(Everything would be okay, at some point, but everyone wasn't always completely okay, and Peter liked broken things because he recognized them well, and he put new things together when he did, and he'd make due with all of the broken people in the world if he thought that they'd all understand at last. He didn't mind.)

Peter's steps were lighter and lighter as he walked, moving back to the half-skipping gait that was his typical default. He grew more and more animated, too, as he left behind some things and decided to roll forward to better ones. He'd spent some time getting good at that, rolling right past his problems. It occasionally made them worse, his tendency to barrel through things before pretending they either weren't there or just sort of making them out to be less than they were. Sometimes, it worked. No. Most of the time, even, it worked, his ability to hold on to ridiculous optimism.

But sometimes? Sometimes it all just sort of exploded, all at once. A bit like it just had. At least it hadn't ended as badly as that last fight with his brother had. He needed to apologize, except Arthur had said some horrible things, too. Worse yet, he doubted his jerk brother even realized how his words affected him sometimes, how shouting that he wasn't even a real Nation, anyway, would tear for a moment at him (am I even supposed to exist?), tear until Peter said something he didn't really mean in retaliation. ("You're such a jerk! What kind of brother are you, anyway? All you seem to be good at is driving us out!")

...at least Peter realized what he said was a low blow, a terribly low blow and a horrible thing to say. At least he recognized that fact.

So it was good that, whatever horrible thing Peter had said this time- and with a sinking feeling Peter realized that he really had said a horrible thing to Russia and he hadn't even really intended it, as much as he disliked the older man he hadn't intended it- well, at least they'd slid past it. Russia almost seemed happy, even? Not quite, but suddenly most of the tension that had been there only a short few moments ago seemed to have vanished. He was just sort of listening to Peter, actually. Just sort of listening. That was nice. Peter knew he talked a lot, and he didn't mind being interrupted if he was talking a bit too much, but otherwise he just kept on going on.

Actually, the radio show was a fitting thing for Peter. He liked talking, and on his show he'd just talk, talk for a very long time. He'd tell stories and he'd just try to be happy, 'cause he figured everyone else had enough sad already.  And, of course, he'd talk a great deal, and a lot of it would be quietly rallying everyone else lying in their corners, trying to hole up against the death around them. He'd try to spread news, though he always did keep his word when it came to neutrality; he spread intelligence from both sides just about equally, and he only ever spread intelligence that he thought could help protect civilians in some way. Sometimes, he even used it as an outlet, when on some days he felt so frustrated and lonely that he felt like screaming.

But most days were good. Life in general was good (but this was fragile, oh so surprisingly fragile). So he smiled. Why not smile? It was hard sometimes, but... He smiled brightly up at Russia, deciding to forget how upset he'd been feeling and leave it to be replaced by everything else. He'd deal with it (not really) later. He smiled and then suddenly froze with shock. Unless he'd interpreted those words wrong... he shook.

"...is that an open invitation?" he asked, very quietly. "Would I be able to see Raivis, too? I haven't... not in such a very, very, very long time..." he said, still shaking. "I wouldn't- I wouldn't have to sneak in, or, or anything? You're just- you're just inviting me. You- you want me to come? You- you actually want me to come? I mean, yes, I'd- I don't know any Russian art, ahah, I'm not the artsy one, I mean, Wy's boss once made a painting that had me and Wy in it, but- but you- you want me to come and I could see Raivis and it- it would really be okay?"

For a moment, he stood stock still, shaking, and then, well, if Russia had thought he'd seen Peter beaming before he'd seen nothing on this. He blushed and looked down, looking slightly embarrassed at his sudden outburst, but already planning in his head. Maybe Russia didn't realize it, but mentally, Peter revised his opinion of Russia. He was still somewhat a jerk. But he wasn't a complete and total jerk. He wasn't even Peter's-brother-jerk. He was just- he was just sometimes a jerk who didn't really know what he was doing but that would be okay for now, that could change.

"I mean- if that wasn't- I'm not trying to invite myself over to your house or something, that- that would be rude, but- um, I mean-" he stammered for a moment, unsure of what to say."...sure," he finally ended. "...why... why not? I'd- I'd have to- I'd have to figure something out, I mean, I can't just take a plane because I'm honestly surprised I can still take an English flight to my Daddy's place, really, but I'm good at getting places I'm not entirely supposed to be and I might manage to take the helicopter- I can fly it, did you know? I'd- I'llgetbacktoyouonthat."

Because, to Peter, it sounded almost like Russia had wanted him (had wanted him!) there.

And that meant something. That meant something very big indeed.

So internally, Peter rearranged things a little bit, and he made his happy picture that he always arranged so very certainly and he made room for someone else because he could always do that (someday they'd all be a family, anyway, if Peter could manage it).

Peter blushed. He was being a little silly, and perhaps a little overly excited. Well, no, he was. Just- Latvia! He hadn't seen Raivis in such a long time that it was, well, it was almost physically painful to the boy who clung to friends like a limpet, overbearing sometimes, certainly, but dealing with something so very unlike how most people dealt with the same thing. He'd always figured that he'd cling to everyone who showed an interest in him and then, if one or two left, it would hurt, it would hurt like hell, but he refused to be alone, not if he could help it. So occasionally he was loud and he tried to stay in contact even when he couldn't.

And Latvia? Raivis had walked up to Peter once while he sulked in a corner and said "Are you okay?", and Peter had nodded, and Raivis had whispered "don't lie." And that was why Peter had always yelled at Russia so loudly, because Russia- well, Raivis had to have a reason he could recognise a little kid with a shattered heart and a complete loss of all self-worth at a single glance. Peter hadn't failed to notice that Raivis didn't have much self-confidence. So he'd shouted and shouted. And then? Then he'd kept on looking for friends because if Raivis said he was brave, he'd have to at least pretend to be, before he found he might actually be.

So he clung to friendship easily. So he latched onto any signs of affection. So what? Someday, they'd all, if he had his way, stop fighting, and everything would be a little more broken, sure, and everything would be a little bit more not-good, but everything could be properly good again. Peter had burned his bridges, but not without taking the schematics first. He'd burnt them and immediately started trying to rebuild them. Here was an offer from someone he'd burnt that bridge without the schematics for a long time ago, an offer for a small hand up. Who was he to refuse?

He blushed. "Sorry... I guess I'm still a little emotional. It's just been- I haven't slept much lately, and I certainly haven't- nevermind." He had been about to say and I certainly haven't eaten enough, either, except he couldn't really say that. That would make people worry, and if it got back to his Daddy... Peter knew Daddy was having problems getting enough himself. Peter's massive money and supplies issues were somewhat plugged, anyway. They were there, but they were manageable. Peter could handle it. Besides, if he could handle responsibility this big, everyone would have to at least accept that he was something, right?

"A big dinner? That sounds cool, like a family dinner! I haven't done much of those, mostly because what I call 'family' is scattered all over everywhere. And do my brother's various siblings slash former members of the British Empire count as family, I wonder...? I know that I wound up calling most of the Nordics 'Uncle' pretty quickly, even though none of them are related, except maybe Uncles Norway and Iceland but they argue about that..." He trails off, realizing how much of a tangent he's on. "But that would be nice, I think! It could be fun." He could re-build bridges. Maybe it all would work out.

Maybe.

Except then Russia trails off asking Peter for a favor and Peter's heart just sinks because he realizes that, whatever he's about to be asked, he's not going to like it. "...what is it?" he finally says, somewhat apprehensive. He... there are some things he just can't do, and...

...he supposes he could always just... re-burn this bridge, if he had to...