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France is being particularly annoying this evening, Prussia decides. Spain seems to agree, eyes rolling heavenward as they watch their unusually sloshed friend peacocking to a group of women. "Is he hard up, or what?" asks Prussia."Seychelles left him," offers Spain, by way of explanation. She was France's latest fling—evidently, things had gone south. Prussia squints. The girls he's talking to do resemble Seychelles, delicate features and dark skin and long, long hair."How do you know? Did you hear anything about it?""Well, she told Monaco who told the Italies who told me—" this is going to be good, isn't it— "that she called things off because she found someone else's clothes under France's bed."Prussia bursts into gleeful laughter. "All the whoring finally caught up to him, huh? Whose clothes were they?"Spain leans in, eyes glimmering with amusement. "England's! Army-green khakis, of all things.""Why would that bother her? Everyone knows they're on and off.""It's an issue of respect, no? And she was certain he was keeping the clothes out of some kind of sentiment. I mean, she has a point—it's not like France can't afford a maid to clean up before he brings her home."That sparks a fresh round of laughter, although Prussia can't help but feel bad for Seychelles, just a little bit. It must have been a blow to the ego to find out her competition was the stuffiest, stodgiest nation on the planet. "Poor Sey," he says. "It is thoughtless, isn't it?""You know how France is, amigo. Always thinking with his—""Mes amis!" And there he is, stumbling towards them with less than his usual grace. Prussia can't help but needle him."Ja, Frankreich— what's this I hear about England's dirty drawers?"Bleary sea-blue eyes widen, but true to form, France attempts to conceal his shock. "Non, nothing but a mishap," he insists, arms waving about. "I shall win Seychelles back, you'll see.""Heh," huffs Prussia. "Prove it, arschloch.""Prove it?" His eyes narrow as he considers the challenge. "Well, then. Come! I will win her back right now!"Spain and Prussia exchange a glance. It's a bad idea, and they both know it, but on the other hand, he can tell they both want to see the fallout. "Do you know where you're going?" Spain asks."Pah! Of course I do, mon ami. I am lucky the world meeting is in Paris this year, for I know the way to the Hôtel Marsellaise by heart.""Onwards, then!" Prussia cheers, zipping his jacket up and hopping off the barstool. France staggers off of his own, half-empty wine bottle in his hand, supported by Spain."You are too excited," he grumbles. "Ah, repairing a broken heart is never easy, not even for the country of love..."The observation lingers in Prussia's mind as they wander through the streets. Why, Ludwig had asked once, are you always so excitable? It wasn't an easy question to answer, not even to his brother. The truth of the matter is that the worst century of his life, a period bookended by the Austro-Prussian war on one end and the Iron Curtain on the other, had only come to a close a scant fifty years ago. He'd lost Austria and Hungary both in one fell swoop, and all he had left was Ludwig—so he raised him well, turned him into an empire. Then Ludwig went to war for his people, twice, and was twice broken. And at the end of it all, once his boss had shot himself and Gilbert wanted nothing more than to shield his brother from the world so he might recover in peace, he was abruptly cut off from all contact with him.He'd decided, then, isolated but for the melancholy Bloc nations (and Hungary—but she hadn't asked for help, and he hadn't offered), that he wouldn't become them, wouldn't allow loss to coax him into the comforting, gentle haze of casual melancholy they lived in. It was the reason for much of their resilience, but Prussia preferred to hold fast to the gnawing pain of isolation, to remind himself that its opposite existed as well. That once he was free, he'd be able to feel enough to enjoy it—to return to Ludwig as himself, not as a shell, forever mentally trapped behind the curtain.So he feels it's his duty now to enjoy life as much as he can, as if he owes himself some recompense for his period of suffering; and other nations can (and do) scoff and criticize, but Prussia alone holds the honor of being the only nation to emerge relatively unscathed from the USSR.It's easy to get lost in his thoughts at times like this, the steady pace of the walk lulling him into a sort of relaxed awareness. France is mumbling away in soft French, Spain gamely herding him along, and Paris is dark and quiet. It's nearing three in the morning now, and everyone save the barflies have gone off to bed. The edges of the world are blurred, somehow, just a miasma of sidewalk and stars and the city's characteristic dripping, curling architecture. Prussia's almost disappointed when they reach the hotel."To Seychelles!" declares France, spinning around and raising the wine bottle to his lips—but he hits a streetlamp, and there's a sparkling shatter as the glass breaks and wine spurts out, first spraying onto the sidewalk, then dripping down his sleeve. "Merde!""Maldita sea," mutters Spain, and wraps his sleeve around his hand to help France remove the glass shard embedded in his hand. Prussia yanks France's pocket square from his coat, and despite the latter's protestations, ties it tightly around the wound."There," he says. "Get inside, you'd better rinse that.""You did it wrong," whines France, and Spain and Prussia exchange yet another exasperated glance. I like France, Prussia reminds himself. Most of the time."Ja, arschloch, do it yourself then!"France shakes his head obstinately. "Non, venez." Without waiting for them to follow, he marches up to the elevator and presses the up button, herding them inside.England's awakened by a tentative knocking, and reaches up to rub at his temples. The clock says it's three-thirty in the morning, and England can only think of one nation it could be. "America?" he calls, making for the door, stumbling and bleary-eyed. "Did you watch a horror movie again?"But he's proven wrong when he pulls open the door—it's France, of all people, dripping blood from the cut on his palm, Prussia and Spain flanking him and wearing near-identical scowls of irritation. "What do you want?""It hurts, mon Angleterre," whines France, trying to show him his cut, and at that, England tries to shut the door—but the shifty Frenchman slides his foot into the gap. "If you don't help me," he says, "I'll have to ask my dear Canada to."He blinks stupidly, taking in the scene, sliding his gaze up to meet first Spain's eyes, then Prussia's. Please, mouths Prussia, and England must suppress the urge to sigh. "Don't wake Canada at this hour, you absolute arsewipe. Is this about Seychelles?""'Ow does everyone know about that," mutters an irate France. "If you had just cleaned up after yourself—"A snort. "I thought so. Shut up, and get out!" snaps England, temper flaring, and resumes his efforts to push France out of the room."Wait," he whines in reply. "No, Anglais— Anglais, it hurts, seul toi peux apaiser ma douleur, je suis seul au monde, mais pour ti—"England can barely conceal the flash of disgust. It's absolutely France's hallmark to show up again and again, spouting poeticisms, hoping to bed him, just to turn around and properly date another the moment they catch his eye. "Stop," he insists, cheeks reddening with the embarrassment of Spain and Prussia bearing witness to this embarrassing, sloppy show of—of whatever it is. He isn't quite certain it's affection, yet it isn't desperation either—it's a bizarre cross of the two, a dark, syrup
y, sunken pit of need. "Just—I'll help you, just shut up, you berk."He reaches out to grab France's uninjured arm and wrenches him inside, and sure enough, Spain and Prussia follow. The former takes the armchair, tipping his head back and shutting his eyes, clearly choosing to ignore the whole situation. Prussia, on the other hand, follows them to the bathroom, trailing curious eyes across the room and England's blue-and-white pajama bottoms. He leans against the doorframe, tilting his head and watching England and France.Still half-asleep, England sits France on the shut toilet and pulls out the first-aid kit. His gaze slides uncomfortably over England's skin, heavy and considering. How many times had they been in this position, the two of them, throughout the world wars? It's second nature to England by now.From where he's sat, France looks up, immense vulnerability in those deep blue eyes, and blinks at England. Despite himself, his heart squeezes, twists in on itself, and he kneels beside the toilet, positioning France's bleeding hand over the garbage can, and carefully disinfects the wound with hydrogen peroxide. It's quiet, quiet enough that England can hear him grit his teeth, feel the slight hiss of pain. Then, he wraps the wound carefully, white gauze around and around that delicate, long-fingered hand, erasing any trace of the blood. France's eyes shimmer with something like sorrow."You're all right," murmurs England, rising to his feet. He gives in to temptation, to that pleading gaze, and reaches out with his clean hand to tuck France's hair behind his ear. And once he does, France sighs with relief, leaning forward to press his forehead against England's bare chest."Angleterre," he mumbles fondly—and they're there, suspended for a moment, until England looks away. He accidentally catches Prussia's red gaze, then. The other nation hasn't moved from the doorway, eyes tired and half-lidded. England can't read his expression, but then Prussia offers him a sympathetic half-smile. He must be sick of France's shit himself. England offers his own half-smile in return and turns back to France, clapping him on the back."All right," he declares. "Up we get."It's decidedly tender, the way England handles France. Prussia briefly considers commenting, but decides against ruining the mood—France, after all, has calmed down nearly instantly. He eyes England as he continues his ministrations, gently dabbing at France's hand with a hydrogen peroxide-soaked tissue. It really is disgustingly sweet.France at last staggers to his feet, using England as a cane, and they move a few steps before France visibly gives up and collapses onto England's bed."Blasted frog," mutters England, scowling halfheartedly. He glances at France, and then at Spain, who sighs, and then at Prussia. "Will you take him?""Take him where?""Your room, home, anywhere.""Just let him sleep here," moans Spain. "It's not like that would be new to you."England's eyes narrow. "Just take him," he frets, wringing his hands. "I'm meeting Radha for breakfast, all right? I can't have—" he waves his hands— "this. Why did you even bring him here?" he asks, looking to Prussia now."He insisted," says Prussia. "Sorry.""Bloody hell," moans England, fingers rising to his temples. "I've got to— to iron my shirt, fix my hair, I haven't any time for this—"Radha, huh, wonders Prussia, and gives in. "I'll take him," he says. "But you owe me one.""What the hell do you mean, owe you one?! You brought him here! But, er—thank you, Prussia."They approach the bed, and England helps him sling France's limp body over his shoulder. "Scheiße," he mutters, making for the door, Spain trailing behind. "Later, England.""Good night."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It begins when Arthur takes up with Gilbert. At least that's how Francis likes to think of it- that it begins at precisely the moment Arthur yanks Gilbert towards him by the collar and smashes their mouths together with violence and teeth, like a man who wants to forget.Matthew knows better. He knows exactly when it began, and it wasn't at the stupid corporate bar they'd convened at that evening. The story began much earlier, in Ottawa, with Alfred and Matthew and Kumajiro and a long afternoon of beer-drinking after a hockey game. It ought to be a comforting scene, but for one of Alfred's careless comments- but it wasn't truly careless, for he had no way of knowing how it would sting.Matthew and Alfred are sat at the bar, laughing and talking and discussing where to eat, when Alfred's phone buzzes. He picks it up, checks the screen, exhales in amusement, and puts it back down- and it's sheer bad luck that Matthew asks, smiling, "What was that?"- and worse luck still that Alfred responds."Francis texting from Art's phone. I wonder when they'll finally sort it out and get together properly."Matthew laughs bitterly, and it's a testament to how much his brother cares for him that usually-oblivious Alfred notices his tone. "Hey," Al says, gaze settling into concern. "You all right?""Oh, Al..." He sighs, just past the point of tipsy, and leans on his brother. It's still a surprise to him, after all this time, that Alfred doesn't even shift with the sudden weight against his side. His super-strength means the weight is hardly a burden, and to someone like Matthew, who balks at even the idea of inconveniencing those he loves, that's nothing short of a benediction. Suddenly overcome with affection, he shifts a little closer, Al's arm making its way around his shoulders, and says: "I've got a secret.""Is it that you talk to Cuba? 'Cause I already know about that."Matthew scowls. "Who told you?""MI5.""Arthur's got me bugged?" He's suspected it, but to have confirmation is somewhat unsettling."Don't take it personally, Art's got everyone bugged. He's been paranoid since World War 2."Matthew blinks, shelving that knowledge for the moment. "Well," he says. "The Cuba thing is a secret. Was a secret. But that's not the secret.""Whatever it is, it can't be as bad as the Cuba thing.""Trust me, Al. It's worse."Alfred laughs. "Sure, worse. All right then, what is it?""I like Francis," he replies casually, a certain satisfaction blazing through his drunkenness of finally being the one to toss a bomb on the table, casual as anything. "I really like him. I was staying with him at the last conference, remember, and he- we'd drink coffee in the mornings, and wine in the evenings, and talk. And he smokes when he's sad and cooks when he's happy, and I- I've just been... feeling things. And ever since then, I haven't been able to think about anything else."They spend a few moments in silence."Well," says Alfred. "Fuck."Matthew giggles.They don't return to the topic until much, much later, ensconced in a blanket cocoon on Matthew's carpet, the soft beer-buzz finally starting to wear off. "You deserve better than Francis," says Al. "He's such a perv, dude... but if you want him, I'll help you get him. Leave it to the hero!""No, wait," stumbles Matthew. "If he and Arthur are on again, let's just wait. I don't want to mess it up."Alfred shakes his head, Nantucket moving with him. "If you wait that long, someone else is gonna swoop in. Trust me! We'll make Francis think of you in that way- and then when he and Art have their next fight, you can make your move.""Al..." he murmurs, recognizing the telltale gleam in his brother's eye. "What are you planning?""Nothing! Nothing, I was just thinking- what if I got Spain and Prussia to help me, and we-""No.""But, Matt-""Please, no! Let's just... just don't do anything, Al, I just want to hold on a little longer. Please?"His brother sighs. "If you insist, Mattie."Alfred, in a rare display of maturity, obeys Matthew's orders and does not intervene, at least not immediately. However, the ensuing chaos is still all his fault - for things escalate, rather appropriately, at America's Fourth of July party.That brash, daring American spirit proves infectious, as it does every year, and the multitude of nations packed into America's D.C. estate laugh and cry and drink and argue with more vigour than they usually do, buoyed by that infectious atmosphere."AMERICAAAA!" Prussia shouts drunkenly, watching the red-white-and-blue fireworks explode, and Al claps him on the back so hard that he stumbles forward a few steps."AMERICA!" he shouts back, not one to be outdone. "FUCK YEAH!"Matthew shares a glance with Francis, both amused by the subsequent masculine display of back-slapping and cheers, and then the latter turns to watch Arthur, leaning on Alfred's picket fence and talking to India. Fourth of Julys are bittersweet, still, for him, but he's relaxed enough right now, an American flag thrown over his shoulders and a little flag umbrella sticking out of his drink. India's wearing a stunning red-and-blue sari embroidered in silver, and Matthew watches Francis watch Arthur as India turns to find the end of her sari caught in the fence, and Arthur kneels and helps her untangle it."French India," comments Francis, "would have been far superior to British India."Matthew frowns. "I'm glad it wasn't French India." He still remembers England's swollen joints, his pus-filled boils- remembers him leaning over the toilet and vomiting until there was nothing but bile left, scratching and clawing at his skin as if trying to tear it off. "She poisoned him, remember? Justifiably, but... still. It was awful. You would have died," he adds pointedly. She'd done it not too long after the second world war, and while Arthur was weak, Francis had been on death's doorstep. It's a sobering enough thought that he moves closer, just enough that their shoulders touch, and France smiles at him.That's when it happens. The smile is just this side of alluring, hair tousled just-so, dark blue eyes reflecting the falling sparks of the fireworks. The memory of the poison and the fireworks' booms in combination heighten Matthew's adrenaline, sharpening his senses, and he realizes, all at once, that France is beautiful. He's always known, but it's never hit him in the gut quite like this, never tugged at the pit of his stomach- and he's close enough that when he inhales, he can smell Francis' distinct scent of orange and brown butter and clove. Reeling, he stumbles back."Are you all right?" asks Francis."I- yeah, I need to use the bathroom, sorry."And once he's reached it and locked the door behind him, he sits on the toilet and presses his fingers to his red, red cheeks.When Matthew leaves, Francis casts about, seeking another group to join. Prussia, Spain, and Australia, among a gaggle of other nations, have surrounded America, engaging in a joyous conversation held at volume. France hasn't the energy to match them tonight. Germany, the Italies, and Japan have monopolized a table, but he imagines the conversation would become stilted, should he alone join. The Latin American countries are speaking entirely in Spanish, and he doesn't want to approach the Southeast Asians lest Vietnam air her grievances again, so he gives in to temptation and approaches Arthur and Radha instead.As he nears, he puts on his most dazzling smile, looking India up and down. "My dear," he says. "You look absolutely lovely."She's not one for flattery, her smiles never entirely without suspicion, but she accepts the compliment nevertheless, along with the champagne flute he presses into her hands. "Thank you, Francis. You as well."He knows. Especially in this modern era, he takes every chance he can get to break out the silk shirts and cravats. He knows Arthur knows, too, by the way he's eyeing him. England's turned up in a drab navy suit and red tie, his only concession to the joyous nature of the occasion the American flag Alfred's draped across his shoulders. He's kept it on, likely out of affection for his ex-colony, but he doesn't seem best pleased."That flag is very fetching on you, Angleterre."Predictably, England blushes red, glancing sideways at India, who seems like she couldn't care less. "Alfred gave it to me," he says defensively.Francis turns to Radha. "You deserve a flag, too." An eyebrow rises. "Here," he continues, plucking the America umbrella from Arthur's drink and wiping the end off. Then, he reaches out and gently brushes India's hair away from her ear, settling the umbrella in its place. "Stunning."She cocks her head to the side, eyes glittering. "I dare say you deserve a flag, too, my dear France." Pinned to her sari, there's a little enamel US flag he hadn't noticed- and she removes it, and approaches him, her fingers whispering across his collarbone before she carefully pins it to the lapel of his shirt. Then she slowly looks up, up at him, all dark hair and eyelashes and wide, brown eyes, and blood rushes to his face. He feels Arthur's disbelieving gaze on him as Radha lifts her hand further to ghost fingertips across his cheek- and his expression must have given the game away, for she laughs with true mirth and steps back."Don't forget," she says. "You were not originally the country of love."Arthur snorts ungracefully, always pleased to see Francis taken down a notch or two, and Francis frowns, still a bit shaken. "I didn't mean any harm.""I know. Nor did I." And then she raises her champagne glass, smiling at the both of them. "To love?""To love," they echo, and drink.When Matthew emerges from the bathroom at last, he's disappointed but not surprised to see his wayward ex-guardian damn near cuddled up with India, of all nations, Arthur gaping at the two of them. He's too far away to hear what's being said, but a slight pink blush tints Francis' cheeks. Valiantly choosing to ignore the whole scene, he sidles up to the bar instead, bumping into Prussia, who takes one look at his face and pours him no less than four fingers of rum, splashing coca-cola over it, and pushes the cup into his hands. "Cheer up," he says. "Escaping England's clutches is no mean feat- both you and America deserve to celebrate properly."He drinks. "Stupid England," he mumbles. "Stupid, stupid England."Gil laughs. "What'd he do?""He's hurting me," Matthew mutters. "And he doesn't even know it...""So? Tell him to stop."Matthew can't seem to shake the image of Francis and Radha pressed together, Arthur gaping in shock. "Even when it's not his fault, it is!" he whines. "Why is everyone so obsessed with England?"Gil flicks his forehead. "I wouldn't say everyone's obsessed with him, birdie, but it certainly sounds as if you are."But Gil's grin softens when Matthew turns to him with sorrow in his wide, violet eyes- and he squeezes his arm gently. "Hey," he says. "I know England pretty well, all right? He's got a black heart, but he loves you and America, almost as much as I love Ludwig. Just go talk to him- or, wait, one sec- ENGLAND!"Matthew curls into himself as Gil shouts and waves, and Arthur excuses himself from Francis and Radha. "What is it?" he grumbles, once he reaches the bar, shoving between Matthew and Gil and ordering a drink. "Dark rum, rocks. No umbrella. Gilbert, what do you want?"A snort. "Your ex-colony needs you," he says, and then Arthur notices Matthew, curled into himself, looking anywhere but at him, and forgets about Gilbert altogether."Matthew," he murmurs, concerned, and reaches out to squeeze his hand. "Are you all right?""Too much to drink," he ekes out, choked, and leans into his ex-guardian- and Arthur puts his arms around him and hums, just as he'd done so many years ago, and Matthew relaxes, lulled gently into sleep.Alfred can't help but worry when he sees the other nations out, thanking them for their attendance, and finds Matthew asleep in Arthur's arms, the older nation frowning at his ex-charge with concern. "Hey," he whispers. "I'll take him to bed.""Very well," and Alfred carries Matthew into one of his spare rooms. He pulls blankets from the closet as Arthur unlaces Matthew's boots, and they tuck him in carefully; and then, Arthur whispers: "Nightcap?" and Alfred nods."What happened?" he asks, once they're settled in. It's peaceful, outside on the porch. The air is still a little smoky from all the fireworks, and the summer heat has subsided to a lovely, mild evening. "Is he all right?""He's sad," replies Arthur. "He's been sad for a few months now, Alfred, and I- I don't know why, or what to do." And Alfred hates that his ex-guardian is perceptive, hates the reminder of his brother's misery. While Mattie's little crush on France had begun as something happy, something he could tease and prod his brother about, it'd soon spiraled into something made more of despair, of Canada's conviction that France would never be his."We've taken from him, Art," he says. "Both of us. We've taken and taken from Canada."Arthur looks away. "He's always supported me," he murmurs. "Both personally and as a nation.""Good." Alfred knows he sounds unusually cold, but he knows the British Empire can take it- and sure enough, Arthur narrows his eyes, but doesn't comment. "So," he continues. "You should do something for him, now." He knows he'll be betraying his brother's trust- but this, this has gone on long enough, and America likes fixing things, can't stand leaving them half-done and dragging along behind him. It really is for Matthew's own good; that, and he's quite drunk."Sounds like you know something.""I do." There's a pause, blue eyes locked on green. "Don't sleep with Francis anymore.""What?"Alfred leans back, swallowing another sip of dark, smooth rum. "Mattie wants him.""What? How long has this been going on for?""Years. I mean..." Alfred shakes his head. "Years."Arthur tilts his head back, watching the stars, and they share a ponderous, heavy silence."Don't tell me you're in love with him," continues Alfred, not unkindly. "You've had over a thousand years to sort it out."That pale throat works as Arthur swallows. "It is pathetic, isn't it? But you needn't fret- although I'm in love with him, he harbors no such affection for me. He likes me well enough, I grant, but... as you say, I've had my chance. I will step aside."Alfred wraps an arm around him, knowing how those words must cut. "You say that like it'll be easy."Arthur leans into him, draining his glass. "You brat," he murmurs. "Of course it'll be easy. It's for Matthew."Alfred thinks of his revolution, of all Arthur sacrificed for him, of all he sacrifices for Arthur- how they are now something of an impenetrable unit, the constants in one another's lives. "I'm not France, and I can't offer you romance- but I can play the part, for a while. You know I like you, after all.""Happy birthday, you bloody prat," replies Arthur, smiling. "You're just angling to defeat the British Empire today, aren't you?"Alfred accepts the change of tone with grace. It's a great sacrifice Arthur's agreed to make, and if he doesn't want to discuss it further, it's his affair- he knows Arthur loves Matthew enough to keep his promise, regardless of whatever he feels for Francis, and that's all Alfred can ask. "Can I?" he asks, shifting closer and using one shoulder to press Arthur back into his seat. "Maybe the British Empire might like to be conquered."Arthur rests his forehead against Alfred's, grateful for the comfort. "The British Empire would like that very much indeed." At that, Alfred presses their mouths together and swallows his laughter, and their tongues tangle in a familiar dance. Arthur hmms gently, sliding a hand into Alfred's hair, and Alfred gives in, turning entirely towards him and swinging a leg over his lap for better leverage. They kiss like that for some time, hands wandering, until Alfred loses his patience and rises to his feet. Then, in rather dramatic fashion, he picks Arthur up and throws him over his shoulder."The British are coming!" he teases, and Arthur sputters in protest; and he carries him upstairs, to his bedroom, and throws him down onto the sheets, grinning predatorily. "Gimme some French nothings to whisper, Art."Peridot eyes roll in exasperation. "Be yourself, not Francis." He extends a leg to nudge Alfred's thigh. "I like you as you are."Overcome by fondness, Alfred climbs onto the bed and presses his smile to Arthur's throat, licking and biting and enjoying the way Arthur curls into him in response. It's always been unexpectedly casual and easy between them, at least since their relationship eased after the revolution. Alfred likes to think they're as close as two people can be, despite all the ups and downs in their past- thinks he'd be in love, even, if they weren't so damn similar. But the connection they have, it's easy and constant and Alfred's grateful.Arthur surges up and presses against him, squirming and struggling to flip them over, and Alfred uses his super-strength to pin him down, gasping as blood rushes to his nether regions. Pinning his partners down always tends to do that to him; and it's all the greater today, for all the fondness he holds in his heart, and for the fact that it's Arthur, Arthur on the fourth of July. A ragged groan drips from Arthur's throat- what a perv, Alfred thinks, and he falls forward to grind against the other, covering that red, red mouth with his own.It's quick, as neither of them are particularly patient people, and both are three sheets to the wind, buzzing with the soft sweet adventure alcohol promises. Alfred wets his fingers and pushes them in, pressing Arthur down, down into the mattress, whispering: "Come on, redcoat, you know you want it, open up-"And Arthur, equally gone, eyes hazy and seductive: "Show me what you're made of, then, poppet-" and Alfred removes his fingers and slips in slowly, breath stolen from his lungs. They pause together for a moment, trembling- and once Arthur stills, Alfred begins to move, carefully at first, then with more vigour. The fey little nation beneath him snaps his hips up and back, trying to control his rhythm. "Ah- ah, harder-"Blue eyes spark, and an answering groan; and Alfred reaches deep within himself, slamming forward with every thrust until his thighs are quivering with effort. "Fuck," he pants, "fuck, Arthur.""Say it, boy, I know you want to-""We hold these truths to be self-evident," Alfred pants, muffled by England's sweaty collarbone. "That all men are created equal-" and he pauses to breathe, ragged gasps torn from his lungs.Arthur bites his shoulder, scraping nails down his back. "Go on," he pants. "Declare your blasted independence, United States."Perhaps there's some merit to Arthur's words when he says Alfred is too young to understand certain things. Certainly he cannot imagine getting off on battles he lost, defeats that still sting in some way. He's done his fair share of role play, of course- what if America lost? But he's never reveled in true defeats the way England's doing now, squirming and panting beneath the ex-colony who escaped him. Pervert, he thinks again, and moves with still more force, enchanted himself by the reenactment."You couldn't stop me," comes the truth, yanked from the pit of his stomach, and Arthur moans, long and low."I couldn't," he hisses, just an exhale of air. "Couldn't shoot you, Alfred.""That they are endowed by their Creator," he continues, finishing his declaration, "with certain inalienable Rights, that among these are-"He slips an arm under Arthur's back, pulling him up so he's straddling his lap, and thrusts still deeper. "Life," he growls. "Liberty- and the pursuit of happiness, ah-" Arthur's moaning America America America into his ear, spilling over their stomachs, and as he tightens around Alfred, Alfred soon follows.They collapse in a sweaty heap on the bed. "Fuck, that was good."Arthur smiles lazily, already half-asleep. "Happy Independence Day."Matthew awakens to the spacey wee-ooo of America's latest video game, something to do with aliens. He has an awful headache, and the patches of sunlight dappled across the floor tell him it's afternoon- he's certainly missed his flight. He sighs and drags himself from bed, padding into the bathroom, and when he finishes up, he ventures outside. "Hey, Al."His brother pauses the game and turns, flashing his expensive, thousand-megawatt grin. "Coffee?""Please," he says fervently, and collapses on the couch. Alfred returns with a plate of eggs and toast and a cup of coffee."I've got good news," he announces, as Matthew picks his way through the food."Yeah?""Yeah. Art and Francis are done, at least for the moment.""Really?" He frowns. "Why?""Dunno. Didn't ask, don't care. The point is, this is our chance, Mattie!"That much is true. Francis has other partners, many other partners, but Arthur is by far the most frequent. Francis insists that's only due to their unfortunate proximity, and Matthew wants to believe him. But if they're done, for now, if Francis has ticked Arthur off, perhaps he will have the time and wherewithal to notice Matthew."Maybe," he says, "I should take my vacation in Paris next month."Alfred's grin is blinding.Arthur sits beside him, the tap-tap-tap of his pen all too audible. Francis smiles and nods, trying to listen to Ludwig go on about low-carbon energy solutions without giving in to the urge to annoy his neighbor. He'd called it off between them a few days ago, and Francis hadn't protested- this is how they always were, on and off- but something feels different this time. Arthur had delivered his speech with an odd sort of finality, as if this were the last, and stranger still, he'd kissed Francis goodbye, fingers twisted in his silk shirt, as if he'd been afraid to let go.Normally, he'd ask directly what happened, but England's been making frequent trips to D.C., and matters seem clear enough. So he leans back and spins his pen between his fingers and wonders if Seychelles or Monaco or Germany might appreciate his presence tonight; but despite himself, his thoughts keep wandering back to England. Arthur. Although they're on and off, he normally sees it coming- his wandering eye, Arthur's resulting exasperation, and finally, a pause. But this he hadn't foreseen, not a bit: that he'd lose his little rabbit to America, possibly permanently. It's more disquieting than he cares to admit, even to himself. Of course, if it were to be anyone, it makes sense that it would be America, but Francis had spent so long teasing Arthur for his burnt scones and angry outbursts and bushy eyebrows that he hadn't considered someone else might look at England and see what Francis sees when he takes him to bed: peridot eyes and pale skin and genuine, vulnerable, raw force.He chances another glance at Arthur. He seems no different than usual, mildly irritated and fidgeting with his watch- and when he looks up, meeting France's eyes, he tilts his head questioningly. Francis half-smiles, shakes his head- no, nothing, sorry- and turns away.After the meeting, he huddles up with Toni and Gil, letting his friends debate which bar they're to grace with their presence tonight. "Matthieu is in town," he informs his friends. "Staying with me. He'll join us as well." Then Toni invites the Italies, and Gil Germany. But when Francis turns to issue a final invitation of his own, its intended recipient has slipped out the door, nary a trace left behind.go get em, implores Alfred's text, and Matthew lets that sentiment bolster him as he rummages through his duffel in search of the blue-grey jacket he knows brings out his eyes. This is his chance, tonight, to seduce Francis for the first time, to show him Matthew's more than his ex-charge, that he's graceful and beautiful and sexual, everything Francis could want. So he lets his hair fall in loose, pretty waves, ensures the shirt he's chosen shows off the breadth of his shoulders, practices his charming smile in the mirror. Even if he doesn't bed Francis tonight, he'll set the stage, present himself as someone who might be considered- and from there, try to build on that momentum.The bar they've chosen is one of his favorites, an old French resistance hideout from the second world war. It's a luxury for Paris' elite now, velvet and down cushions covering old burns and bullet scars in the wood, and it's a blessing for them as nations, for recordings of any kind are absolutely verboten. When Matthew enters, he must provide a password- so he whispers "Francis Bonnefoy" through the door, and it opens, admitting him to a gaudy affair of silk and velvet. He spots the European nations easily, jammed elbow-to-elbow at a corner table, and takes the opportunity to slide in beside Francis, smiling and greeting everyone with more-than-usual confidence. Notably, Arthur's missing- though if he had a fight with Francis, it makes sense he wouldn't want to join the revelry. Matthew puts it out of his mind, and leans in, speaking quietly into Francis' ear. "Let me buy you a drink," he says. "As a thank-you for letting me stay."The atmosphere is doing its work. Francis smiles and says: "Merci, Matthieu- a red wine, if you would? I shall trust you with the choice."He returns from the bar with an old vintage, one he's certain Francis will appreciate, and his ex-guardian's eyes widen as he swirls and scents the wine. "Well chosen.""I thought you might like it."Francis laughs, light and free, and Matthew's gut flips. "You know me so well, cheri.""Hey, birdie," and it's Gil, settled in on Matthew's right, looking him up and down. "Did you borrow Francis' clothes?""Eh? No, why?""You look nice." He grins, and throws a companionable arm around Matthew's shoulders. "Did you recover from America's party?""Things are all right now, yeah.""So." He leans in, red eyes glimmering with curiosity. "What was it about?""I can't tell," he replies, mirroring the pose. "Not just yet. But, as for England, I- that whole thing isn't a problem anymore.""What's that about England?" asks Francis, turning towards them. "Do tell."He's on the lookout for gossip, no doubt, but Gil responds before Matthew can demur, smoothly covering for him. "What's going on between England and India?"That topic brings a spark to Francis' eye, and he leans in to speak, breath brushing Matthew's cheek. "He's been obsessed with her since they met, but as far as her feelings on the matter, I'm in the dark. What have you heard?""Heard? Nothing. But I saw them at America's party- but then again, I saw you and India getting cozy, so what's up with that?"That question elicits a wince from Francis. "I tried to play a little joke on Arthur," he explains, "and she was less than pleased that I chose her as my prop.""You'll have to explain that further," says Matthew, the wine beginning to burn in his stomach. "From what I saw, you two were like this-" and he presses close to France, raising a hand to his cheek and blinking up, up at him, as India had done. He feels, rather than hears, France's indrawn breath. "-so was that your joke, or her retribution?""The latter," he murmurs, dark blue eyes glimmering down at Matthew as if meeting him for the first time, surprise writ all over those graceful features. "My joke was this." And he reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind Matthew's ear, and they hear rather than see Gilbert slam his glass down and leave. Some part of Matthew's mind wonders why that sounded so angry, but it's easily drowned by the thrill of having Francis' attention at last."I could have been your prop instead," he teases sweetly, emboldened by the reaction.Francis shakes his head, smiling almost hesitantly. "Arthur would have had my head on a stake. Come, Matthieu, let us join Antonio- Gil must be in a mood, but Toni at least is having fun."They socialize and laugh and watch Antonio and Romano bicker, and Francis has his arm around Matthew's waist all night. And when they're plastered and giggling, the bar closes down, they stumble home together, pausing at intervals so Francis can point out this detail or that, hot breath whispering in Matthew's ear.He's pointing out one such detail - this time, a corbel carved by a sculptor he'd known personally- when they reach the house and stagger inside, collapsing on the couch. "I love Paris," Matthew says. "It's so beautiful and old, all the layers of- of people's stories, the Seine...""Paris," says Francis, leaning close and resting his chin on Canada's shoulder, pressing their bodies together, "has nothing on you, my dear."Cheeks flush red, and Matthew's heart begins to race. "Ah, Francis, I- you're so warm," he stammers.Gentle hands reach up and remove his glasses, then brush wavy blonde hair away from his face. "Do you want me tonight, Matthieu?"His gaze is gentle and caring and everything Matthew wants. "Yes," he breathes. "Yes, please-"And the man he likes- loves?- tightens his arms around him, and he can finally press his nose to that beautiful sharp jawline and inhale. He half-turns, the better to explore, and once his nose is finished, he follows with his lips- and they're properly pressed together now, tongues tangling soft and slow.They pull away only after long minutes, once the sky's changed color from dark blue to almost-black, and Francis licks his lips and asks: "Have you done this with a man, before?""No," admits Canada. "Just Ukraine, a few times, but... nobody else."He doesn't know how it's possible, but France's eyes go even softer, and he says: "We will go slow, cheri. Come to bed."So he lets Francis take him by the hand and lead him to his bedroom, and they tangle languidly in the silk sheets, kissing and touching until Matthew exhales sharply- the pressure in his underwear is almost unbearable, and Francis notices, slides still closer and slips a hand down, deftly undoing the buttons. Canada helps, then, kicking his pants away and tentatively grinding his hips against Francis'."Ah, mon doux, tu es tellement beau," France breathes. "Come, move as you wish, mon doux, I am yours to use as you see fit-""Ah," Canada gasps, the words and stimulation stealing his comprehension, bucking his hips and rubbing against Francis desperately. He's not entirely sure he likes that phrasing, doesn't like to think he's using Francis, but his face and his scent and his dark, soft, seductive voice have undeniable appeal. "You're so beautiful, Francis-"And he holds Canada in his arms as he shakes, shudders, and finally stills- and only then does Matthew reach for Francis and watch the line of his throat, as he throws his head back and pants.Afterwards, Francis cleans Matthew off, and then himself, and wraps an arm around him, cuddling close. "Did you enjoy yourself?"He drops kisses on Francis' nose and cheeks, smiling. "You're perfect," he breathes, and buries his face in that warm throat.Arthur's surprised when Gilbert shows up at his house. The journey must have taken an unusual amount of dedication- he'd have had to leave Francis' party, buy a train ticket, come all the way across the channel, and find his way to Arthur's house, alone. That's the only reason Arthur opens the door when he peers through the peephole- Prussia must really want to see him.He's met by wide red eyes, as if Prussia hadn't expected him to open the door, either. "Tea?" he asks, more out of habit than anything else, and his guest shakes his head."Something stronger."He debates with himself for a minute- out or in? And then, opens the door further. "Take off your shoes." He pulls out ice cubes and whiskey and rum and even a box of biscuits, dropping the lot unceremoniously on his coffee table. "You came all the way across the channel."Gilbert throws himself onto the squashy tartan couch. "You're strangely agreeable. I thought I'd have to break your windows.""Curiosity killed the cat," Arthur responds dryly. "So, explain yourself."Gilbert takes one of England's cut-glass tumblers and fills it with ice and then whiskey, dim yellow lamplight reflected between his fingers. "I couldn't stand watching Francis flirt anymore."Arthur snorts. "Us Anglo-Saxons have something in common, after all.""Did you ever doubt it?" He reaches for an old jeweled hand mirror on England's side table. "Look at us."He does. He and Prussia look almost like mirror-versions of one another, angel and devil, and although his eyebrows are (much) bushier and Prussia's features are harder, it's undeniable that they share a face. "Come to think of it, you look more similar to me than to Ludwig.""Same for you, with Alfred."Arthur nods, conceding the point, and pours his own glass. "So, who was France's unwitting victim this time?""Birdie, believe it or not- although I wouldn't say victim, in this situation."Arthur nods again, completely unsurprised- and, suspicions confirmed, Gilbert scowls."They're selfish," he declares."What? Who?""Canada and America. The things they ask of you, after you saved them from the childhoods we had, all war and fucking starvation.""Germany asks much of you, too," comments Arthur. "If not in the same way. I mean, two world wars and a stint behind the Iron Curtain... I don't envy you."He flaps a hand dismissively. "It wasn't so bad. Well, except the Iron Curtain. Not being able to see Lud was hell.""What is it exactly about this face that says caretaker," grumbles Arthur. "Most nations killed new ones on sight, back then...""Well, I'm done caretaking!" exclaims Prussia, raising his glass.Arthur eyes him. "No, you're not.""Nor are you.""No," he agrees. "If you had to choose between Ludwig's happiness and your own...""Ludwig's.""Pray you never have to make the choice," says Arthur, and Gilbert can't very well say anything about it now. The truth is, he's disappointed in Matthew, more than anything else. Canada never struck him as the sort of nation who'd ask someone who loved him to give up their joy for him; but he doesn't bring it up. It would only rub salt in the wound, and England's proven so damnably virtuous."Don't make that face," urges Arthur, gentle now. "The sympathy is all very well, but you needn't fret. I have America." And always will, his confident tone says, and although Gilbert isn't a particularly emotional nation, he's nevertheless relieved. For if he were in love, and Ludwig loved the same person, he would be completely alone. "So how did you know?""Know what? Oh, that you gave France up for Canada?""No, how did you know that I... that I loved Francis. That it's something of a sacrifice.""You weren't possessive," he explains simply. "His other lovers always wanted to trap him. You know, the whole country of love thing- they didn't trust him not to sleep around. You're the only one who loved him enough to let him go."Arthur looks away, swallowing hard. "I knew he wouldn't give it up for me," he says, voice rough. "So there was no point asking him to.""You deserve better," he insists, watching himself-Arthur-himself, remembering Austria and Hungary and the way nothing was ever okay again once they left him.England's calmed somewhat, now, and turns to face him. Prussia's certain his expression betrays his thoughts, and fights the urge to turn his own face away. The other's mouth tugs into a sad smile. "So do you," Arthur says. "Fair-weather friends are worse than enemies."His glass is empty, now, and Prussia blinks. "Scheiße, there's something to this island after all." He's relaxed, the red-and-green tartan of the ugly, squashed couch he'd found so offensive mellowing into a cozy, predictable pattern. The squashed-ness of the couch is softness, as it turns out, and now that it's reformed around him, he finds he's comfortably sinking into the cushions. As odd as it is, it grows on you- rather like Arthur, he supposes. "This couch is like quicksand.""It's nice, isn't it?" Arthur's pouring himself another finger, and Prussia extends his glass. England pours for him, too. "Perhaps we could light a fire.""Sure." And no sooner does he reply than a fire bursts into being in England's hearth, illuminating the red brick of his fireplace. "What the hell?""The fairies," explains Arthur, and Gilbert resolves to put the matter out of his mind.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Mattie's month of vacation ends this week, and Alfred considers flying to Europe to pick him up and attend the world meeting in person. It's been a while since he's visited, and all the drama seems to be over there right now. Mattie's texts are full of images of clasped hands, Parisian cafés, Francis smiling in the kitchen; and Arthur's, oddly enough, are full of bloody Prussia dropped by again and Gilbert thinks Radha's never going to forgive me and if you're landing in the afternoon I'll have Gil pick you up.He is, indeed, landing in the afternoon- and sure enough, Prussia awaits him in the driver's seat of England's old Bentley, wearing black sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. America laughs. "Yo, Prussia! Lookin' good."The albino blows smoke over his left shoulder, and grins right back. "Hop in."They don't talk much on the way over, since it's an open-top. Alfred relaxes, enjoying the wind blowing through his hair, and Gilbert drives like a madman, earning several honks and middle fingers. When they make it back to Arthur's house, Alfred hangs back, intent on observing- and Gil leads him to the back gate, through to the garden. Arthur's there, caring for his roses, and Prussia presses the Bentley's keys into his hand. It's oddly domestic. Arthur even glances up and smiles at Gilbert before he notices Alfred and straightens, smile softening still further. "Alfred!" he exclaims, and strips off dirty gardening gloves before he traps him in an embrace."Hey, old man," he teases, squeezing tightly. "Long time, no see."The early spring weather, too cool for a t-shirt but too warm for a jacket, means Arthur's wrapped up in knit cardigans and ratty scarves, living in his most curmudgeonly state. To Alfred's surprise, Prussia doesn't seem to mind a bit, brushing past Arthur to fiddle with the oven as Arthur fills the kettle with water. It's odd. It's the position Alfred had always assumed would someday belong to France, at least until Canada threw a wrench in the works- but he's glad England's not alone and stewing in misery, even if he's been coming to visit America less often."So, how long have you guys been playing house?"Arthur sputters, spilling some of the water, and Gilbert raises an eyebrow. "A few weeks," he says, and then Arthur cuts in."He's just staying over for a little while, it's not like that-""S'okay, Art, I'm happy for you."Both pairs of eyes widen, at that. "We're not having sex, Alfred.""Oh." He shrugs. "Okay.""Okay!" exclaims Arthur. "So don't say anything strange to anyone else, all right-""Or do," interjects Prussia, grinning, an arm making its way around Arthur's waist, and Arthur slaps it away, irritated."Stop that, you blasted kraut-""Or what?""Or Dresden!"That elicits an eye-roll. "Ja, ja. Now get your scones out of the oven, or they'll burn again."Arthur swears.After tea, Prussia disappears to call his brother, and Alfred drags Arthur out to take a walk. "This whole thing with Prussia is weird, Art. Not bad, I think- but weird.""Trust me, I know. He just- he showed up one evening, and we had a drink, and then he kept popping round to see me; and before I knew it, he asked to stay over.""I understand that," concedes Alfred. He'd stayed over himself, for a while, when the housing bubble popped. In the twilight of the British Empire, England at home is soft and warm and predictable, an oasis from the usual cacophony. "Hope he doesn't overstay his welcome."Arthur snorts. "I shall kick him out, should the issue arise.""Are you okay to see Mattie and Francis tomorrow?""Of course. Matthew and I spoke, last week- he's happy." His voice is tinged with wistfulness, but thankfully, no resentment. "But enough about that. Are you happy, Alfred?""Me? 'Course! Why do you ask?""You seem like you're overworking yourself.""I am," he admits. "And I had an ulterior motive in coming here.""Well, spit it out."He looks at his cardigan-clad ex-guardian, trying to reconcile that image with what he's about to ask of him. "Will you come with me, next month? To Iraq."Arthur's eyes narrow."This ISIS thing is getting out of hand," Alfred continues. "I know it's been affecting you, too. We need to put a stop to it, or at least drive them underground- and more importantly, we have to clean up the mess we created.""Very well," says Arthur, some of that empire-spirit returning to his gaze. "Pack the good MREs this time, will you? If I have to eat one more vomit omelette I really will kick the bucket.""Those are out of circulation now, I swear!""Even bully beef was better than those." Then Arthur frowns, suddenly. "I'll have to ask Prussia to take care of my roses.""Who do you usually ask?""France, of course- and in desperate times, Sealand.""France, huh..."When they return to his house, Alfred wanders the garden while Arthur orders takeout. The flowers are still vibrant, but the leaves are yellowing- they'll soon succumb to winter's forced dormancy. Much like Arthur, his forced dormancy at the end of his empire. But also like Arthur, the riotous bloom of spring is still within them.Prussia finds him there, rubbing a petal between his fingers. "Hey," he says. "You're freaking me out."America slides blue eyes over to watch him. "Really?""Yeah." The albino leans on the fence and frowns, regarding him. "You're all happy and idiotic at world meetings, so what's this shit?""It's like you don't even remember World War II," he marvels, and Prussia looks away, shifting uncomfortably. Alfred laughs. "Come on, don't be like that. I'm not after you this time around.""There's no point to your stupid desert wars.""Terrorists are a threat to United States, not to mention Canada and Europe. Don't act like Germany isn't worried, too.""So you're going to go bomb people who have nothing to do with domestic terrorism."America freezes with cold, cold rage, leaning into Prussia's personal space. "If you really believe that, you're more naïve than I thought."Then, at last, Prussia's eyes flash back at him, threateningly, and Alfred smirks. "There we go," he continues. "You can try to act like the second world war never happened, but I know what you're capable of. There's no reason to act so meek and mild. And, you know, on that note- don't feel like you have to act that way for England, either. You know quite well what he's done.""What's going on here?" and that's Arthur, frowning at both of them, back door open. "Come inside, it's getting cold."Prussia makes a point of bumping into America on his way in, and England considers them both curiously, but doesn't mention it.________________Francis doesn't know what to expect when he meets Alfred and Arthur at the Paris Eurostar station. He's heard, via Toni, that Gil's been staying at Arthur's house, and that the latter's D.C. trips have paused, but he's also heard that Gil and Arthur aren't having sex. But when he spots them, it's as if nothing has changed- Alfred's chewing on a burger and Arthur's scolding him, brushing crumbs off his jacket, and there's no Gilbert anywhere in sight. His friend must be angry with him, but for what offense he doesn't know.Matthew spots the other nations a second later, waving wildly. "Al!" he calls. "Arthur! We're over here!"They thread their way through the crowd and approach, exchanging greetings and smiling. Francis eyes Arthur. He looks the same as ever, wrapped in a ratty green-knit cardigan; Francis supposes it makes sense Gil's hasn't shacked up with him for sex."Bonjour," he says, sliding an arm around Matthew's shoulders. "How was your trip?""Not bad," says Alfred. "Gilbert dropped us off-" and Arthur elbows him in the ribs. "Ow!""It was just fine," he tells Francis. "And as for Gilbert, I think he just wanted some time alone.""At your house," Francis adds flatly.Poor, sweet Matthieu realizes at that moment that they're about to get into another argument, and interrupts. "Are you guys hungry? Francis made us a reservation at this restaurant- what was it called again?""Rue des Saveurs."He's still narrowing his eyes at Arthur, who's glaring right back, at least until Alfred takes pity on his brother. "Lead the way, Mattie!" he exclaims, taking Arthur's arm. "We'll follow!""Let it go," whispers Matthew, as they make their way onto the Paris metro. "You have to talk to Gilbert about it, not Arthur."And he knows his lover is right, but he can't shake the irritation bubbling beneath his skin, the itch he's convinced he can only scratch by annoying Arthur. "Désolé, cheri," he murmurs. "You're right."He receives a sweet smile in response, and lets that soothe him as they huddle together on the metro. When they reach the restaurant, he even feels gracious enough to say: "I hope you aren't feeding Gilbert your scones, Angleterre."Matthew frowns, but Arthur takes that for the truce it is, and scowls without heat. "I should have brought you some, you git."They settle in after that, and Alfred says: "How was your vacation, Mattie?"For once the center of attention, Matthew tells them of everything he and Francis have done over the past few weeks, stories punctuated only by laughter and the clanking of cutlery, and Francis takes the opportunity to study Alfred and Arthur. In his opinion, they aren't suited to one another at all. Alfred's no romantic, more suited to an easy, sunny sort of relationship, to the sort of love that lives in shared laughter and support and adventure. Arthur, however, is a romantic through and through, however much he tries to deny it. He needs a deeper love, needs the sort of lover who'd notice little details about him, who'd revel in the intimacy of whispered confidences and quiet moments. Perhaps Gilbert plays that part in Arthur's life now, meets his gaze over a book, moves his teacups around, replaces his most threadbare jumpers...The utter wistfulness of his thoughts catches up to Francis in that moment, and he blinks, reorienting himself. Gil, replacing Arthur's jumpers? Bah!He tunes back in. Matthew, too caring to feel quite comfortable talking at length about himself, has turned the questioning on Alfred and Arthur. "-never would have guessed," he's saying, "that you two would get together.""Us?" Arthur frowns. "Who told you that?""Um, Francis?""It's an understandable assumption," he says, as all his companions eye him. "I mean, you flew to D.C. so often...""...Right. Well, as I'm traveling with America again soon, don't make the same mistake twice.""What? Where are you going?" Can we come-"Nowhere fun," interjects Alfred. "Iraq." He says it as eye-rack, complete with a southern-Gothic drawl, as is his wont when he's angry- and Francis leans back, exhales. There's a heavy silence. An angry America is dangerous."Iraq," echoes Matthew, pronunciation textbook. "You're going after the world meeting, right?""Two weeks after. No idea how long we'll be out.""Stay safe," Canada urges, worry all over his features. "Oh, Al...""Does Gilbert know?" asks Francis."Not yet," replies Arthur. "I need to ask him to care for my roses, too.""I care for your roses.""Well, what with your relationship with Matthew being so new, will you have time? I might as well ask him." A shrug. "Beats Sealand, that's for certain.""What if he- what if he doesn't do it correctly?"Eyebrows furrow. "It'll be all right, he's been helping me in the garden for weeks now... I mean, do you want particularly to do it, Francis?"There's a curious irritation in his chest at the thought of Gilbert and Arthur gardening together. "Non.""Chin up," Arthur says, evidently concluding that Francis is afraid for them. "We've been through worse.""That we have," he replies, refilling each of their glasses with wine.Arthur's very nearly numb by the time they've finished lunch and spent some time traipsing about Paris. Francis and Matthew are infatuated with one another, gazing besottedly at each other and holding hands, and he does his best to suppress his jealousy. It would have been easier, so much easier, if he really were with Alfred, but in some ways, he thinks they're too close for that type of love. Alfred's an echo of him in too many ways, for he was the British Empire, and unwittingly passed that curse on to America, World Police; and it's the least he can do to help the poor boy through it, as best he can. The other wrench in the works is that Alfred is perfectly capable of treating him coldly, should appropriate circumstances arise- and it's neither fiery hatred nor incandescent love, it's an almost-indifference, and that's not something he could bear from a lover. It isn't America's fault. The curse of Empire is isolating at best, and madness-inducing at worst.He wonders if perhaps he isn't meant for a love like Francis and Matthew's, natural and sweet and uncomplicated. Perhaps he's destined to yearn- for Francis, for Radha, for everything he can't have. But if this is his curse, it is some comfort that he isn't alone; that Gilbert, too, is resigned to their shared fate.He knows Alfred's leaving him after this lunch, to finish his diplomatic tour of Europe before the world meeting, but it's comforting that he won't be returning home to an empty house- that Prussia will be there, filling the bottom cabinet with potatoes and throwing his wet raincoat onto the furniture and reminding him to remove his scones from the oven. The thought of that does still more to quell his bitterness, bubbling up again and again despite his best efforts, and he's able to smile when he bids Matthew and Francis farewell."He'd best treat you well, Matthew," he says, quite seriously. "You deserve the world."Alfred, the poor boy, is burdened with the knowledge that this is yet another goodbye, that Arthur's going to have to keep saying them again and again until he doesn't love Francis any longer. He looks away, ignoring the farewell, and Arthur can't blame him.Matthew, on the other hand, still has Iraq on his mind. "Arthur," he says quietly. "Please be safe.""I will, my dear boy. Rest assured I will.""Don't worry about Francis," he continues. "I'm happy."When Francis himself approaches, all blue eyes and knowing smile, Arthur must resist the urge to scowl. He accepts the "Be safe, Angleterre," with grace. They've known each other for so, so long, much longer than Arthur's been in love, and the glance they share echoes the world wars, echoes two tribes standing against Roman forces. Arthur takes strength from that- whatever their situations, they need each other, England and France and America and Canada. "I will," he says, and considers Francis' heartbreaking beauty with a cold sort of clarity. "I really must go, now, else I'll miss my train."And when Prussia picks him up at the train station, for some reason much chattier now that America's gone, he lets the sound wash over him, calm his frazzled nerves. He'll break the news about Iraq tonight."Truly?" asks Francis, aghast. "So that's why!" He pushes his phone across the table, then, to show Antonio the text Arthur's sent him. Prussia can't stay much longer after all- will you take care of the plants?Green eyes flick over the screen, and Antonio half-smiles. "At least he's escaped England, but he still doesn't want to talk to you.""Merde. What crime have I committed, mon copain?"His friend shrugs. "He'll come around, now that he's fought with England. Just wait and see."They turn as one to regard Gilbert, on the other side of the conference table, beside his brother. He's watching England shuffle through a sheaf of papers, spinning Ludwig's pen anxiously between his fingers. "Did he say fought?""He didn't give me any details, Francia, he just said he'd had enough of England's bullshit. It sounds like a fight to me.""Angleterre can't resist a fight, can he? Me, India, America, and now even Prussia- anyone he's ever been even remotely close to, other than mon ange Matthieu..."Said ange isn't paying him any attention at the moment, absorbed in shuffling through his own papers, something he doubtless picked up from England. Francis trails curious fingers up his thigh, but he reaches down and gently laces his fingers through France's in a gentle reprimand. "The meeting's about to start," he protests sweetly. England would have said that, too- but he wouldn't have meant it, not really. Canada, however, is no exhibitionist, so France squeezes his hand and says: "Later, then."Later doesn't come as early as Francis would like it to. Once America announces the Iraq trip to the rest of the world, Italy insists on throwing a goodbye-good-luck party- so they troop downstairs, a gaggle of men and women in suits, and jam their way into a dim, sleek corporate bar with loud, bumping music. America's the star of the show, as always, their own G.I. Joe, flirting with the bartender in decidedly Pennsylvania-Dutch-influenced German, and England, in the absence of his usual companions, is sat beside Japan. Prussia, too, is absent of his usual companions, and now that they're all here, it's become apparent that he's avoiding not only England, but America, too. He's stuck to his brother's side like a burr, steadily drinking his way through a handle of whiskey and tapping his bottle against Italy's glass. Austria and Hungary are watching him with concern, and it makes Francis want to hit them. They betrayed Prussia so mercilessly it's a wonder that they can pretend to care now.It ought to be well and truly over. Japan's forgiven America the A-bombs, France has forgiven Germany the destruction of the wars, England and America have forgiven one another for all the sins built up between them. But Prussia, who usually couldn't hold a grudge longer than a few months, could never forgive Austria and Hungary. It makes France wonder what happened, if there's something he doesn't know."Hey, Francis-" and that's his angel, the wonderful man he's wrapped around like a clinging snake on a vine."Hmm?" he murmurs, brushing his nose across the other's jaw."I think Prussia might hurt himself. Maybe we should do something?"While he hadn't been watching, lost in his own thoughts, Prussia's cornered America. And he's swinging, hard, trying to hit the other nation, but America's super-strength has enabled him to hold Gil's wrists in place- but he's still squirming, trying to fight, and Francis understands why Matthew's concerned. He's liable to break a wrist against that strength. America's trying to be gentle, but he too is drunk."-before you slept with England!" Prussia's shouting. "And now Iraq! Verdammtes arschloch! Fight your own dummkopf wars!"England scowls, from where he's seated by Japan, and murmurs something, likely an apology. Then he rises to his feet, inserting himself between Prussia and his ex-colony, still drunk enough he's leaning on the bar. "What in God's name, Gilbert! Let him be!"Half-smiling, America lets go of Prussia, and he turns towards England, both of them tilting drunkenly and using one another for balance."What in God's name, Gilbert! I bloody well chose to go, he didn't force-""Schwachsinn-""And anyway, why do you care? I've been at every-""I don't!" shouts Prussia, eyes alight. "I don't fucking care! Do whatever you want!"And that's when England's gaze changes, from concerned bookworm to arrogant pirate, and he hauls a struggling Prussia in by the collar and kisses him with violence and teeth, like a man determined to forget he's going off to war. Gil stumbles further into Arthur's arms, forcing him back a few steps, his own hands pressed to the other's shoulders, and kisses back with the same fervor. Canada lets out a little oh of stunned surprise, and Francis sits up straight. Well, he thinks, mind struggling to wrap around the situation. This is new.America half-smiles in a drunken, satisfied sort of way, and he leans back over the bar to order more drinks. The others are watching the pair as if gaping at a train wreck, and when they separate, it seems they're just as stunned as everyone else."Well," says Arthur, blinking those green, green eyes, and jealousy swells within Francis. Those are his eyes, the eyes that tell him Arthur wants to take him to bed, wants to press him down and pull his hair and scrape savage teeth down his chest. He's always shared Arthur with Alfred and Radha, in different ways, but this is the first time he's looked at someone else like that- as if he and Gil could keep coming back to one another, again and again, that Gil would be an easy replacement for Francis, now that he was caught up with Matthew, with sweetness and grace and honey and everything Arthur wasn't."Scheiße," mutters Gilbert, and this time it's he who hauls Arthur into another kiss. The other nations begin to lose interest, at that, turning back to their own groups to gossip about it, but Francis can't tear his eyes from them, from Arthur's knee between Gil's legs, from the way he presses him up against the wall, wiry shoulders flexing with the movement. He wishes he didn't remember Arthur doing that to him, crowding him with such determination and intensity, filling his senses with oak and sea-spray, bruising grip trapping his hips in place. Arthur's head has dipped to the level of Gil's throat, now, and Gil, completely insensible, has his head thrown back, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Francis can imagine what Arthur's doing, has felt it many, many times.He's disappointed when they eventually decide it's too public, when Arthur seizes Gilbert by the elbow and they stagger out, two drunks clinging to one another, the way he and Arthur used to bob and weave home to his Paris flat and end up halfway-undressed right there on the stairs, to the consternation of the neighbors. He's even more disappointed that Arthur stops on their way out to touch America's shoulder, to say something to which America nods, and doesn't even think to turn and make eye contact with Francis, as he usually does. They're something like friends, normally, even when they're off, but now, it's beginning to feel as if they're nothing at all.So, once Arthur and Gilbert leave, he goes to the bar and returns with more drinks for himself and Matthieu, intent upon enjoying himself despite what feels like shifting ground beneath his feet. Perhaps Arthur's just nervous about Iraq- in all likelihood, the matter has nothing to do with Francis at all. And if he takes Matthew to bed, later, and wishes he wasn't so pliable, wishes he'd fight and squirm and bite, that's his own cross to bear.Prussia's still stunned by the realization that he cares about England. But he does, he cares, he doesn't want to imagine him bleeding out on some godforsaken sand dune, pale skin burning to a crisp beneath the harsh desert sun. He half-wonders about it, in the back of his mind, wonders if England has grown to care about him too, but he loses the thought to the slide of Arthur's tongue over his own, squeezing at Arthur's shoulders like a man possessed.He hasn't slept with another nation in a long, long time, and the thrill of England's body and lips and sea-spray scent is only heightened by the glimpse he catches of Austria and Hungary watching the scene in clear shock. Take that, he thinks, fuck you, I'm a fucking catch-And England notices what he's looking at, pushing him roughly into the wall. "Enough," he growls, before moving his lips and teeth to Prussia's throat. There's something unbearably hot about England snapping out orders, insistently pushing a thigh between Prussia's legs, pinning him to the wall, so he obeys, throws his head back and shuts his eyes and gives himself entirely over to Arthur's ministrations.Though they're both Anglo-Saxon, England is undeniably the greater pervert. When his fingers begin to fiddle with the buttons of Prussia's shirt, Prussia grabs them. "Not here," he slurs. He knows, were it England and France, they'd keep going right up until the bartender kicked them out, but his sense of shame is too strong.England doesn't seem to mind. In lieu of replying, he grabs Prussia's arm and they stagger over to America. He says something to America, and then they stumble into a cab, pinkies barely touching during the ride to the hotel.But once they're behind closed doors again, England all but jumps him, shoving him roughly onto the bed and climbing atop him, biting where he can as he undoes Prussia's belt. He's in a definite mood, a conqueror's mood, and for his part, Gilbert feels almost ridiculously domestic. In the course of his time with England, his wardrobe has taken a turn from leather and spikes to comfortable, soft cotton and wool. Even now, he's wearing a soft black jumper he'd found in the back of England's closet, a fabric that promises comfort, peace, steady warmth.With a surge of shock, he realizes he's made himself almost absurdly vulnerable, just over the course of the last month or two, and reaches out to hold slim shoulders between his palms as Arthur drags his pants off his hips. "Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck you, England. Why did you do this to me?" He hadn't realized how cold he'd been, not until now, with England's warmth pressed against him from collarbone to toes- hadn't realized how much of a blow it had been, to grieve Austria and Hungary for so long."You care," grumbles England, tongue lapping at his collarbone, fingers now hard at work on the buttons of his shirt. "Whether it's about yourself, or me, or me-as-you or you-as-me I can't tell, but you bloody well care."Prussia digs his fingers into Arthur's narrow hips, allowing his head to fall back as he pants. "Ah- dummkopf- you don't understand a thing."England snorts unattractively, now working on their belts, sitting astride Prussia's hips. "You're here because I understand," he hisses, palming Gilbert's now-freed cock roughly. "What's the real problem?"That first touch draws all the breath from his lungs, and he bucks hard beneath Arthur, trying to rub himself against him. "I-" he stops, drawing hands up to cover his face in embarrassment. "I want, I want to feel close to someone."He's granted a reprieve when Arthur twists his long (unexpectedly long, almost like a pianist's, how had he not noticed before) fingers into his shirt and says: "I understand.""Do you?""Francis," he replies, half-choked and all twisted up. "It's not the same, but I understand.""It's still fresh, for you," says Gilbert, enclosing Arthur in the circle of his arms. "Mon amour."Arthur stiffens with rage, assuming he's mocking him at first. But when he looks up and sees how serious Gilbert's expression is, his eyes widen with understanding. "Is that awful?""I don't hate it," England admits, thoughtful. "It's certainly practical." A smirk. "I can play the piano, too, you know, but you'll have to find someone else to be Hungary.""Angleterre, s'il te plaît," Prussia begs, in his best French, and sorrow flashes over England's features before determination takes over."I don't hate it," he repeats assertively. "Sehr gut, Preußen. Lasst uns beginnen."It's a little rougher, a little stranger, two steps sideways from Austria, but it's close enough, and Prussia reaches out to grab him. "Show me, mon coeur. Show me how I might appreciate you-" and he's cut off by Arthur's mouth closing over his once again.England's theater tradition makes him a better actor than Prussia is, but thankfully, he doesn't seem to mind Prussia's little Gallic-sounding huffs and murmurs as he fucks him with Austria's slow, steady rhythm, those long fingers slipping around his cock and teasing him. Gilbert clings to Arthur, arms around his shoulders, mouth at his ear, shoving himself up to meet his thrusts. "Ah," he moans, "-ah, Roderich, echt jetzt, mach mal schneller-""It is the journey that matters, not the destination," reminds Arthur in that annoying ever-calm Roderich-voice. The accent is still too thick, too British, but Gilbert doesn't mind- it's close enough for pleasure, yet far enough not to bring back memories. "Roderich- ah, merde, mon lapin-"Arthur groans in his ear at that, long and low. "Francis," he hisses. "Ah, Francis-" and comes, thrusting right into Prussia's most sensitive spot."Scheiße!" And with another few strokes, Prussia comes as well, adding to the mess between their sticky, sweat-soaked bodies. "Fuck," he says, still panting, as his companion rolls off of him. "You're a freak, England."England laughs, casual and almost fond, and nudges Prussia's foot with his own. "Speak for yourself, my friend."England calls. Not often, but whenever he can, and although they aren't anything by name, as of now, Prussia appreciates the consideration. They'd spent two weeks bumping around England's house and fucking (both in character and out) before a camo-clad America darkened the doorstep, and while Gil wouldn't say he's in love, it's good to hear from Arthur, to know that someone other than his brother is thinking of him.Sometimes he can hear America in the background, snoring or chewing or talking to someone else with that uncharacteristic coldness, and he hopes England isn't sleeping with him, not when he's like that. It's one thing when he's cheery, warm Alfred, but this war-hawk side of him is frightening.Other than that, life goes on- and feeling rather guilty for treating Francis so badly, Gilbert sends him a text.Sorry, it says, and nothing else, but he knows Francis will respond.Did I do something? comes the reply, and Gilbert can't very well divulge Arthur's secret; so instead, he types no, I was being an idiot, and they arrange to meet in Paris. It's convenient; Gil's packed up his scant belongings, intent upon going home, and Paris is en route to Berlin. It's been nice, sitting around in England's sweaters and watering the garden, but it just isn't the same without England there.It's an easy ride on the Eurostar; he reaches Paris in the blink of an eye. The area around Gare du Nord is all American chains and ethnic restaurants, and Prussia struggles to hold in his laughter when he spots France sitting rather stiffly outside a Five Guys, waiting for him. "Francis!" he calls, instead; and when Francis spots him, a profound look of relief crosses his features."Mon ami! Come, let us leave this neighborhood - merde, the smell of fryer oil has surely worked its way into the threads of my shirt-"By and by, they make their way to the 16th arrondisement, all the way to France's sun-dappled, expansive flat. It's luxurious, but ancient, so instead of taking an elevator to the tenth floor, they both climb up ten flights of stairs, panting slightly once they reach the door. "Get a fucking elevator," huffs Prussia. "I mean, really."France scowls, the effect rather ruined by his flushed cheeks. "Napoleon himself climbed this staircase! I could not replace it with anything so gauche as an elevator."Then he turns, to knock at the door, and who should open it but Canada, languid and smiling. "Come in," he says. "Hi, Gil.""Hey," offers Gilbert, as neutrally as possible. He still thinks it's vile, what Canada's done, but it's hardly his place to judge, especially when Arthur doesn't seem to think anything's wrong. "Nice to see you." He's usually more enthusiastic- normally, he likes Canada- but neither Matthew nor Francis comment, or even seem to notice. They're rather caught up in one another, Matthew beaming warmly, taking in the sight of his lover. Francis himself is wearing a smug little smile, like the cat who got the cream. It all makes Gil rather uneasy."You too," replies Matthew, half-distracted. "I bought groceries," he continues, still focused on Francis.Francis smiles. "Gilbert, my friend, today we will have boeuf bourguignon."Gil sticks his nose into the bag and inhales the earthy scent of rosemary. "Fuck yeah.""Have a seat," says Matthew, rummaging around for a corkscrew. "I'll help Francis chop."When he's quietly chopping at Francis' elbow, it's easy to forget Canada's there. It was different between France and England, the few times he'd found them attempting to cook together. England would insist upon helping, France would block his way and ply him with drink, then feed him bits and pieces of vegetables to keep him distracted. And when France's back was turned, England would sneak by and taste the food, begin to add something- and France would turn around just in time, slap his hands away. It's more peaceful, like this. Matthew's chopping, Francis stirring, and a heavenly scent fills the air.Bored, he pulls out his phone and opens his messaging app. Tapping Arthur's name, he writes have you had anything to eat other than MREs, then curses under his breath and hits the backspace. Picking up his calls to make sure he isn't maimed or dead is one thing, but asking after his eating habits is a little too domestic.After some time, and some idle chatter, the cooking is finished, and Francis sets a bowl before him. "Bon appetit," he says, and Canada smiles. Lunch is delicious as always, but more of the same- France, at least, seems to have understood that Prussia feels too awkward to discuss anything more serious in Canada's presence. So once their plates are empty, he says: "Matthieu, I think I shall take Gil out for a drink."Matthew nods distractedly, piling dishes in the sink. "Okay, see you soon!""Tell me truly," says Francis, when they finally leave the flat. "Are you all right?" He takes Gilbert's shoulders in a characteristically Gallic fit of emotion, gazing at him with real concern. "You've been oddly quiet, and I know it isn't solely because of Canada."Gil's rather touched- he'd fully expected him to ask about Arthur right away. "Honestly, Frankreich? The last century has been total shit."Francis throws an arm around his shoulders and smiles ruefully. "You're all right," he says. "Come."And they walk the streets, and reach a red door; then climb stairs, up and up and up, to a bar tucked into a cozy rooftop alcove. It provides them a panoramic view of Paris, and Prussia presses sweaty palms to his wineglass and sighs. "Look," he says, gesturing out the window. "You've done so well.""As have you," reminds France, fussing with his hair in his reflection. "Berlin is an absolute triumph.""Look, about England-""About England, what?" A laugh, but it's a little too loud, a little discomfiting. "I didn't ask."Gilbert's eyebrows rise. "So you don't want to know?""I did not say that.""Ja, then: I am, er, sleeping with him." He can feel his face reddening.France looks at him askance. "Of all the nations in the world... mon dieu, why?""If you're drunk, and distracted, he... he looks a little bit like Austria. I mean, did you know England wears spectacles at home? And plays the piano?""He prefers the fiddle," says Francis, almost absently, clearly working through that thought. "Prusse, listen to me." Here he focuses, turning to face Gilbert, clearly conflicted. "It has been over a hundred years since the seven weeks' war. Will this really help, or is it just a new way to hide in the past?""I don't know," Gilbert replies, swallowing against the lump in his throat. "I still love them. Both of them.""You know I love amour, but this makes me want to tear my hair out! Why?""They were the first nations I knew! I mean, that's why you keep sleeping with England, isn't it? And why Romano is obsessed with Spain, and America with England, and-" Canada with you, he wants to say, but refrains. "They were my first allies, my first enemies, my first everything. Time doesn't heal all wounds."Francis nods, conceding the point. "But it's still possible to move on.""Of course it's possible, but likely? I don't know.""I wonder about that myself," his friend murmurs, swirling his wine."What does that mean? Aren't you happy with Canada?""Oui. Non. Ah, Prusse, he's... he can't help but be Canada. I see flashes of Anglais in him, and wonder if I am making the same mistake twice.""Really?" Prussia frowns. "I mean, isn't that a good thing? He has everything you like about England, with the annoying parts removed.""It's not quite-" Francis pauses, sighs. "It's more that, that I've- listen, you mustn't breathe a word of this. Not to England, nor Canada."Prussia mimes zipping his lips, and his friend smiles tremulously and continues. "I find that I am looking for England in Canada, sometimes," he admits, despondent. "I want him to scratch and bite and fight me. They are similar enough, that I fall back into my patterns with England; and find myself disappointed when Canada is different."Prussia winces. "Scheiße, that's twisted.""I know," moans Francis miserably. "I want to give Canada all he deserves, and yet..."Gilbert finds himself struck by the irony of it all- he's using England to imitate Austria, and France can't help but see England in Canada, and England himself, pining after France. It's all beyond ridiculous. "That's the problem with being with someone you love," he says. "You want to give them everything."France laughs. "Sometimes, my friend, you are more poetic than I could ever hope to be."
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
A few months later, Prussia gets a call. It's early, though not obscenely so- nevertheless, he wonders who'd dare call at this time of the morning. He picks up. "Ja?""It's me," says England. He sounds bone-tired and stressed. "Sorry, I know it's early.""Oh," he yawns. "It is early. Where are you?""Istanbul, now. I'm flying home today.""That's good." There's an awkward pause. "I'm in Berlin.""I know," huffs Arthur, now making a clear effort to control his tone, to cover that brief moment of vulnerability. "I just- I suppose I just meant to say, er, I'll see you.""Arthur," says Gilbert."Yes?""Have a good flight."Another wry exhale. "Thanks, Gilbert. See you.""Bye."Then Prussia gets back in bed, and shuts his eyes, but sleep doesn't come. He rolls over once, then twice- then unlocks his phone and books a flight for London.When Canada looks at his phone and smiles, it doesn't occur to France to ask what he's smiling about. He's just happy Canada's happy, and takes his partner's distraction as a chance to finish some work.Some hours later, Canada says: "Will you take me to the airport, Francis?""Hm, when? Why?""America's back from Syria, so I think it's time I went home, too.""He is?""Yeah. He's at de Gaulle, but he has to get his weapons shipped home, so he booked us both on a flight to New York this afternoon."Francis smiles at him, all charm and flash. "Thank you for staying as long as you have," he says, leaning over Matthew to kiss his forehead. "It has been absolutely wonderful."Matthew smiles shyly and curls into him, and they make the most of the rest of their time together; but once Francis watches Matthew disappear into the terminal, all he can think of is that if America's back, England must be as well. And he owes it to him, doesn't he, after the world wars, to at least check in on him, to ensure he's all right. So he turns his car around and makes for the bridge, stopping only at a liquor store to purchase some rum.When he reaches England's little brick cottage, nobody replies to his knock. So he rummages around behind the flowerpot and finds the key in its usual place, letting himself in. "England?" he calls, but he's met with naught but silence. So France tiptoes up the stairs, softening with concern- but he stops short just at England's bedroom door. It's open a crack, and he can see in, see England's straw-blonde hair poking out of the covers. But it's strange. There's an arm draped over him, an arm clad in black wool, and Francis nudges the door open just a little bit more, as quietly as he can, until he can see properly. To England's left lies Prussia, also sound asleep, turned half-into England, and it's his arm draped over him, his steady breath gently rustling England's hair. It's so profoundly private, so domestic, that Francis can't help but feel that he's an interloper, that perhaps he's lost his place in England's life; that he no longer has the right to dig around for the spare key and let himself in.He watches for a few minutes longer, watches the rise and fall of their chests, until he begins to feel a little too voyeuristic. Then he turns, decisively, and tiptoes back the way he came.It doesn't truly hit him until he's in his car, hurtling back across the channel. England isn't his anymore. England isn't his anymore. And it's not just about sex, it can't be, not if they're sleeping together like that- not if Prussia's waking up beside his England, making fun of his morning bedhead and taking tea."Merde!" he mutters, feeling his heart drop into his stomach, a sudden squeezing of his guts. England had been his for so long- and he'd known, he had, that England loved him. He'd let him go so easily, confident he'd return, for he'd long known how America and England felt about one another, and knew he wouldn't lose his lapin for long. So, naturally, he'd assumed England would return, but he hadn't and he wouldn't and Francis doesn't even think it's because of Prussia, it simply cannot be.Once he reaches the continent, instead of making for Paris, he makes for the closest nation. Belgium, he reasons, will help. But when he reaches Brussels, her staff refuses to open the gate. It's reasonable, as it's two in the morning, but it does smack of a complete lack of respect. And there's still that dread-guilt-sorrow, coiling in his gut, threatening to eat him alive.He parks right outside the gate, raising a middle finger to the guards when they approach. Grabbing the rum bottle, he uses his teeth to screw the cap off and takes a great gulp, splashing it over his shirt, and then breaks into a coughing fit. One of the guards is talking on the phone - no doubt his boss has heard what's happening."Belgique," he shouts, once the coughs subside. "T'es où, toi? This is urgent- national importance- international-" and pauses to down a little more of the rum. He isn't very drunk yet, but the burn helps to ease the knot that's beginning to take residence in his sternum. "Ah, fuck! Fuck you!" and with that, he pitches the entire bottle into the Senne, kneeling, pressing his head between his palms, remembering Prussia's arm draped over England, England's little huffs of breath, the way he, too, had seemed half-turned towards Prussia.Belgium finds him in that position, on his knees and doubled over, tears running down his face. "France!" she exclaims, and he feels a little guilty when he notes she's in her nightdress, a coat hastily thrown over the whole affair. "What's happened?""What hasn't happened?" he moans. "Oh, but I am sorry, Belgique, you cannot imagine how terribly sorry I am.""Come inside," she says, leading him up the drive, and at last the iron gates swing open. "Sit down, and tell me what happened."The whole affair comes out, in hiccups and sobs and lurches. "And I don't even know," moans France. "I don't even know how I lost him. It's not Prussia, that much is clear. It's not that Angleterre has fallen in love." Even as he says that, he doubts himself. Could it be, that they've fallen in love? Is it even possible, in so short a time?Belgium frowns gently at him. "Come now, France. Why would you come to me, when something is wrong with England?""You were closest," he hiccups. "I came here from London.""Well, I don't know too much about him, but I do know someone who does.""What? Who?"She rises to her feet and smiles, taking Francis by the elbow and leading him to her office. "I'm going to bed," she says. "Kelian is here, should you need anything. Feel free to avail yourself of the phone and computer. It's ten or eleven PM now, in the United States."America. Of course, why hadn't he thought of it. "Merci," he offers, as sincerely as he can. "I'm sorry, Belgique. I owe you one."She pats his hand gently in forgiveness. "It's all right. Goodnight, Francis.""Goodnight."He picks up the phone and calls America, direct to his personal line, and sure enough, he picks up. "Yo, France? Is this urgent?"He sounds tired, too, and little wonder- he's just returned from a warzone, after all. Another pang of guilt stabs him. "I- no, not so much. I can call tomorrow instead."A yawn. "No, actually, it's fine. Just tell me now, 'cause I'm taking tomorrow off.""Are you sure?""Mmmmmhmmm." That weary hum is followed by the sound of sloppy chewing. Francis desperately wants to chastise him, but this just isn't the time."I've lost England," he says. It's somehow more real, more brutal and stark, when he says it like this over the phone."Lost. England." America repeats, as if unsure what exactly he's hearing. "He texted me, like, an hour ago. He's fine.""He's with Prussia," says France miserably. "He won't come back to me."There's complete silence on the other end of the line."Amerique," he continues. "It cuts me to admit it, but you know him best. Why? Why?"There's another long silence, and then: "You fuckin' scumbag." It comes out in a dark, savage hiss. "You wriggling, wretched worm. Fuck if I understand what they see in you. You don't give two shits about Mattie, do you?""I do!" he exclaims. "Non, this is not to hurt dear Matthieu- I care for him deeply, but I cannot bear to lose what I already had, do you see? Regardless of Canada, I cannot bear to give him up.""You have little capacity for pain, and even less for sacrifice," says Alfred, unusually icy. "Arthur gave you up for Matthew, because I asked him to."That statement takes Francis a moment to process. "No, no, I know Angleterre quite well- he wouldn't take orders like this, not even from you.""It wasn't an order. He loves Mattie, and Mattie loves you. I just laid it out for him.""He- he wouldn't-" but he would, wouldn't he, Francis had known all along how self-sacrificing Arthur could be when he felt he was making the moral choice, how readily he'd let go of his own problems to comfort America or wage war against Vichy France or, evidently, clear the way for Canada."...he would," finishes Francis, trying to steady his voice. Something flashes, hot and twisting in his gut. "And he did, I see now. But why did you ask him to?""Because Art loved you, and you two had millennia to make it work, and you didn't, and Matthew had to go and fall for you too, but England was always in his way. So I'll tell you, now: it's too late to go back to England. But you're never going to go steady with him, are you?"France's silence is answer enough."Then leave him be," continues America. "Honor his sacrifice, and let him move on. It's been difficult for him, you know, and for Canada, too. Mattie's worst fear is being overlooked, forgotten about. And look at what you're doing right now. England, England, England. If you really care about Matthew, then show it.""It seems to me as if you have put us all in this position. You who asked for England's sacrifice- naturally, he wouldn't have left me without intervention-""I turned the tables," the boy says. "Art and Mattie were suffering, caught in the same old patterns. Something had to give.""And you just had to set it in motion?""Welcome to the future, Francis," says America, a savage glee in his voice. "A future where Arthur is free to find love, a future where Matthew gets his chance. Break up with Mattie, try to get Arthur back, do whatever you want, but you can't reverse what's happened. You haven't seen how Prussia is with him, you know. I mean, the guy's a total weirdo, but he stays with Art for months at a time, steals his sweaters, reminds him to get his scones out of the oven, makes him smile, even. It's been good for him, really good. Even if they break up, you can't compete.""What of me, Amerique?" he asks, voice cracking. "That's their happiness sorted out. What of mine?"A sigh. "If it's meant to be England, it will be. If you're able to be with him, and give up any others, I think he'll come back. And if not, you'll have to find happiness elsewhere.""I can't," he stammers. "I am the country of love, I- I want it all.""I won't let you," says America. "I can't let you, when it's at Art's expense. Understand?"He hangs his head, lets the pain seep through him. "Yes. I do.""I'm not unsympathetic," he continues. "But this was necessary."America: World Police, how could he have forgotten? He's inherited England's mantle of righteousness, with a strong Puritan streak to boot. That tone, that gentle I'm doing it for your own good that is so characteristic of the Pax Brittanica, it takes France right back to the days of empire. But there's nothing a single nation can do, not when a superpower uses a tone like that. "I understand," he says. "I will behave.""I'm not a tyrant, France. I'm not forcing you to do anything.""Would you believe me," replies France, "if I said that that makes it worse?"Belgium is the vector by which gossip spreads. All the nations, by now, know not only that England and Prussia are having sex, but also that it might not be entirely casual.Being nations, that distinction is more newsworthy than the sex itself, and news travels quickly- even as far as Austria, where Elizaveta and Roderich receive the news from an embarrassed Ludwig."I am sorry," he repeats, for what feels like the tenth time, and Elizaveta suppresses the urge to sigh. "It's not my place to impart this information, but I would rather you heard it from me, in private, rather than... later."At the EU meeting, he means, and Elizaveta reaches out to pat his hand. "I understand," she says.Roderich, on the other hand, doesn't look like he understands at all. "I cannot believe," he interrupts, "that you, Ludwig, would come to our home on such short notice just to spread idle gossip."Blue eyes flash with irritation. "That is not a fair accusation.""No," agrees Elizaveta. "It isn't. Roderich, you can't fault him." She stops there, still unwilling to verbalize the why, and hopes against hope he'll back down. It's come as a shock to her too, to hear taken up with England, then that name- as if she picked up a piece of fruit, turned it, and found the other side fuzzy with mold.He rises from his chair and stalks towards the window, facing away. "I will fault whomever I wish to fault.""Italy warned me you might react this way," says Ludwig. "I have said what I came to say; so I will take my leave. Thank you for having me, Elizaveta."She nods politely, rising to escort Ludwig out. "I am glad you came," she says, once they're out of earshot. "Finding out about- about that, in public, would have been awful.""I don't want to take sides," he says. "Least of all against my brother, but I think he, too, would rather you weren't caught unawares.""If he's even thought of us," she replies, and that's when Ludwig's gaze hardens."As if you thought of him," he snaps, suddenly impatient. "As if you- ach-" and he turns away, visibly reins himself in. "I understand it is complicated, and I don't wish to be involved. I hope this will prevent future trouble."And with that, he takes his leave, and Elizaveta's left alone. When she reenters the house, Roderich is sitting at the piano, fingers trailing across the keys. "He won," he says. "The war, he won. By a landslide. And his Bismarck started it, too.""I know," says Elizaveta. There's not much she can say when he's like this. She chose him, chose Roderich over Gilbert, and that's the way it is. She can't miss Gilbert, since she's made her choice, and he can't miss Gilbert, because Gilbert started this whole mess."Why me, Eliza?" he asks morosely, trailing long fingers down a minor scale. "Why not him?"That's rhetorical, for certain. It isn't as if Austria's forgotten about the Habsburgs and the treaties and all the rest of it. She wonders, sometimes, if Austria doesn't resent her for choosing him, as if she alone has caused the divide between them, by giving Prussia a reason to feel wronged. "You know why," she murmurs. "Roderich... I'm upset, too."He turns to face her, at last, and noticing how hard she's trying to control her expression, envelops her in a hug. "Feelings for England, I've never heard something so ridiculous in my life. It's bound to be a scheme, perhaps they're messing with France- I simply can't believe it. I mean, did they look in love to you, after that world meeting?"She allows an ungraceful snort to escape, recalling the public spectacle Prussia and England had made of themselves at the bar, and Austria exhales, half-reprimanding and half-amused. "In lust, if anything," she says."We will have to see for ourselves. But, I will call Ludwig and apologize - it is best to be prepared.""France said you prefer the fiddle," says Prussia. England glances at him, where he's sat at the kitchen counter, and places a cup of tea before him."He did? Why?""We were talking about piano. And other things. Can I see it?""The piano?""The fiddle. Can I hear you play?""I don't see why not," Arthur replies. "But I thought we were going to, er, do the piano thing later.""I dropped the French thing entirely," says Gilbert. "You didn't seem to mind much.""I- ah," I have my imagination, is what he wants to say, but that feels a little too dismissive- and anyway, Prussia's Prussia now, iron cross and deep red eyes and everything else. "I... don't. Mind, that is."He automatically presses against the counter when Gilbert crosses the kitchen, giving him space to pass. "You forgot them again," he says, smiling, pulling the scones out of the oven.Arthur allows an answering smile to hint at his own features. "It's good you remembered, then.""When are we leaving, again?" asks Gilbert. Tomorrow's EU meeting is in Berlin, and Prussia seems rather excited to host England, for once, rather than the other way around."In-" Arthur checks his watch- "an hour. Everyone's going to be gossiping about us, you know," he adds, for what feels like the hundredth time.Prussia grins. "Ja**, about how I seduced you away from France. It'll do wonders for my reputation." He moves closer to England, then, trapping him against the counter.Arthur moves closer as well, until he can smell his own lavender soap on Gilbert's skin, and wraps his arms around his waist, resting his head on the other's shoulder. "Shut your trap," he murmurs, tone quite at odds with his language. Then, Gilbert relaxes too, pulling him in tighter, and his heart twists with sudden emotion. They're both thin, almost wiry- having lived through the early days of the great famine, then the Black Death, Arthur thinks it's rather unlikely that either he or Prussia will ever achieve Alfred, Matthew, or Ludwig's broad-shouldered, well-fed stature. But it still feels good to press their bony frames together, to feel the slight bumps of Gilbert's vertebrae that haven't disappeared beneath muscle despite his exercise routine."Anyway, who cares," murmurs Prussia, vibrations thrumming pleasantly through England's chest. "They'll have moved on by next week."England smiles into his shoulder. The rumors are basically true, but they've become rather exaggerated in the telling - the way Prussia describes it, some nations seem to think they've run off, eloped, showered one another with rose petals, and agreed to ally their nations. The truth is, the feelings had crept up on him so subtly he barely realized they were there. He'd just woken up, the morning after returning from Syria, and found himself in bed with Prussia- and he'd reached for the nightstand, searching for a glass of water that wasn't there, and found a crumpled-up boarding pass for that morning, Berlin to London, one-way.Prussia was still sleeping, then, chest rising and falling gently, clad in a black-wool sweater. It was an old thing England had thrown down the stairs and into the basement when he crawled back home after the first World War, exhausted beyond belief. Gilbert must've had it cleaned at some point- it looked nice, after all this time, despite the little tears and threads sticking out. Gripped by a sudden urge to find the rest of the outfit, the tin hat and puttees and greatcoat, Arthur rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Gilbert, and padded towards the basement. The bag he'd flown home with was dumped right at the foot of the stairs, camouflage and night-vision goggles and all the rest of it; he shoved it into a corner and turned the light on, moving through the nineties, the fifties, all the way back to the early 1900s. There he spotted his Lee-Enfield, lying atop a copy of Brooke's The Soldier, and approached it with all the reverence and fondness of an old friend. Beside it was a pile of clothes, and he began to paw through them - but what emerged wasn't his tin hat, but rather, one of France's rather silly képis. He turned it over and over in his hands, remembering France's blood all over him, not for the first time but the second, the second since they had stood together against Rome, and lost.He took The Soldier upstairs, and left the rest, intent upon returning to bed - but when he passed, he noticed a black loop on the floor. His eyes narrowed, and once he picked it up, he was certain - this hair tie belonged to France. England brought it back to bed, fully prepared to send an accusatory text; but to his right, Prussia's breathing was steady, expression relaxed and open. He put his phone down and frowned, brushing fingers lightly across gray hair. And then, once he had his thoughts in order, he held a paper atop The Soldier and began to write.The EU meeting is about as awkward as Prussia thought it was going to be. It's nice to have England in his country, for once, but he could've done without the tense atmosphere. France has given up all pretenses, and is openly staring at England in a way that makes Prussia feel uncomfortably guilty, and to make matters worse, Hungary's eyeing him from across the room and Austria's fully turned away."Coexistence is going to be a challenge today," mutters his companion, and Prussia throws an arm around his shoulders."Nothing a cup of tea can't handle," he says, and that startles a surprised, genuine laugh out of England. Prussia grins. It's rare that England laughs like that, even with America.Austria, startled, has turned to look; in a sudden good mood, Prussia turns and smirks at him, in as superior a manner as possible. That elicits a scowl, and then a reproachful glance from Hungary, and then he must resist the urge to stick his tongue out and escalate further. The attention gives him a sudden rush, he can't deny it- and England's noticed, too, for he slides his gaze over to them and then offers Prussia a knowing look. "I'll be right back, then, with that cup of tea. I don't suppose you want one too?""I'll take coffee, if they've got any.""Very well." England leaves, then, and Prussia tries not to watch as France slips out behind him. They'll return- the meeting begins in fifteen minutes, after all."Prusse," says Spain, approaching him. "Tell me something, now that France is gone.""Ja, okay, tell you what?" and Spain pulls him down into a chair beside him, leaning in and lowering his voice."Is it true?""Is what true?""Eng-land," he hisses. "Come on, spill. Is it still just because he looks like- you know-"Prussia sighs. "No. It's not just because of that, it's- can we talk about this later? Or, you know, at any other time?""France is... well. Upset.""England loved him first. Still loves him, probably. I mean, fuck! He should fucking do something about it.""I'm not blaming you," says Spain. His eyes are wide and round, and Prussia can see himself in them, wiry and spiky, sprawled across his chair. "I just want to know if you- if this is really about England, or about someone else.""The truth is... the truth is, at this point, I don't know."Spain frowns. It's not a satisfying answer, Prussia knows that much, but it's the truth - it began because of Roderich and Elizaveta, but ever since, it's morphed into something different. "So you're not faking it to make them jealous?""Faking it? No. But I'll admit the jealousy is pretty damn satisfying."That's when England returns, sitting down beside Prussia and sliding the coffee over. Spain and Prussia exchange a glance, and England politely pretends not to notice, shuffling through his papers.As it turns out, nothing can stand up to one of Germany's slide decks. To a man, they're all covering yawns and trying to get comfortable in their chairs, with the notable exception of straight-backed Austria, who doesn't seem to have suffered any loss of energy whatsoever."Thanks," England's saying to Germany, somewhere above Prussia's head. "I'll email you a copy- it's an excellent alternative to solar, we've tried it in Scotland-" and he shuts his eyes, folds his arms, and puts his head down on the table, intent upon waiting until England's done. Almost everyone else has already cleared out, so there's little else to do.That's when he hears Austria's stiff cadence, addressing England of all people. "May I have a word with you?" he asks."Of course," says Arthur. He's always so prim in public, tries to hide his awkward nature and irritability, and it doesn't please Prussia one bit. In fact, he could use a little irritation - he's a prize, damn it, and even if Austria and Hungary haven't accepted that, he thought England had. But perhaps he's reading too far into it, Austria does do business with England, and if he wants to discuss it, that's none of the great Prussia's concern. But as it turns out, it's all a ruse. For when Austria leaves, England in tow, Hungary approaches him, heedless of the other nations still lingering about the conference room."Poroszország," she says, in that light, lilting accent, looking him in the eyes- and it's jarring, as if the world has shifted into color again, as if he's still wandering around the green, green hills of Bavaria, arguing with Roderich about who's going to marry their precious Lizvet."Ungarn," he replies, suddenly hoarse. "Was ist los?""Take a walk with me." Her hair is half-up half-down, the top half curling and twisting around itself in a braid down her back, and she smells like flowers. He gets up."Okay," he says. "Let's go."So they do, in the opposite direction England and Austria had gone in, and walk through the corridors in search of an exit. Hungary hums gently, skirt swishing with her steps, and a long-forgotten ache deep within Prussia begins to make itself known.Why did you leave me, he wants to say. Why did you leave me then, why didn't you ask me for help after the war, why didn't you, why didn't you- but "How have you been," is what he says, smiling politely as if there's no history between them. Perhaps he's learned a thing or two from England, after all."How have I been? Gil, it's been so long. Even for us as nations.""I know," he says. "I didn't think you wanted to see me.""I didn't, for a while," she admits. "But after that... after that, I was with Roderich, and it felt like it was too late.""You chose Roderich," he hisses. If they're going to have it out, he might as well be honest. "You chose him, even though I won. If you had chosen me, Lizvet- if you had chosen me, if Roderich would have joined me of his own volition, instead of fighting, it'd be us in charge now, not the English nations.""You started the war," she says, gently."He didn't want to join me," he replies. It'd hurt, in some inexplicable way, when Roderich had refused to join him- and with such vehemence, with such rancor."England forgave America that sin.""America was England's colony. There's something foreign about him, even now." Prussia thinks of the strange way he looks at England, sometimes, the way horses seem to know him, the way he can slip in and out of different personalities like he's wearing different skins. Roderich and Elizaveta, they'd never felt like that. They'd felt like home."Foreign or not, they managed," she says. "But you- you haven't let it go, for all this time? I know it hurts, Gilbert, I know. It hurts me, too."Gilbert doesn't have a reply to that, a reply to why his German heart, for all its reputed practicality, can't turn as easily as England's. Perhaps he holds grudges too deeply- the further east one went in Europe, the more that'd hold true, in general- but Austria is that way, too, caught up in old, long-held hurt. He rather regrets following Hungary out here. Perhaps he should've just waited for England to return, and taken him downtown, to the Nippon TeaHaus, cozied up together in one of the TeaHaus' booths, worked his way through an omelette while England read his fortune in the dregs of his tea. "Can we go?" he says. "England's probably waiting for me."Hungary sighs. "You don't want to talk?""I love you, Lizvet," he says. "Even now. I could let it go, if it were just you."It's clear Austria isn't pleased when England invites Germany to join them. It leaves England somewhat miffed."I don't know why you'd ask about diesel imports without involving Germany," he says. "I mean, really- I'm hardly going to ship through Calais, the overland transport to Salzburg would cost a fortune.""He is correct," adds Germany. "The Autobahn-""I wanted to talk about Prussia," mutters Austria, very obviously displeased. "Hungary has some concerns."England, somewhat nettled, glances quickly at Germany, who looks just as surprised as he is. "If you have questions about Prussia, I'm certain Germany can answer them. Do excuse me."He leaves before either of them can say another word, and thankfully, Austria doesn't follow.As they approach the conference room, Prussia spots that familiar head of sandy-blonde hair bent over still more papers, and hopes he'll look up- and when he does, they exchange a smile through the glass.Unfortunately, his view of England is cut off by Austria."We must speak," he demands, and nothing quite irritates Prussia like that superior tone."Nein," he says. "Fuck off.""Roderich," says Elizaveta."Would you mind having a word," he says, standing even more stiffly. "Now.""Not right now," Gilbert says, turning to Elizaveta. "Later, okay? In private?""I am asking," grits out Austria. "Not her."."Shove off, he bloody well said not now," interrupts England, standing in the open doorframe now, scowling in irritation.That makes Austria angrier than any of Prussia's refusals. "Stay out of this," he hisses. "I haven't anything to say to the likes of you. You're-" and he pauses, finally spotting Hungary anxiously shaking her head.Sure enough, England's eyes darken with that terrifying rage he's passed on to America. "I'm what?" he asks, almost predatorial. "Continue."Austria won't, of course- he will hold his tongue for the sake of his nation, just as Gilbert has and Arthur has and every nation on earth has, at some point, when faced with an opponent with the power to destroy you. Had this happened a few hundred years earlier, perhaps they might have gone to war- but nowadays, England wields power in a different way."I misspoke," mutters Austria."That's what I thought. Prussia, remind me, why in God's name did I join the EU?"He huffs, amused. "Probably because Germany said you didn't have to join the eurozone.""Ready to leave?" he asks, holding the door open. "Let's go spend some British pounds and prop up your precious eurozone.""It's not that fragile," protests Prussia, following him inside. "I mean, the crisis is mostly over." Truth be told, he has a soft spot for the old marks he has. But the eurozone gives Germany a sort of power over mainland Europe, even if it's not exactly what Prussia had envisioned so long ago."Are you all right?" England asks, once it's just the two of them."Yes," Prussia says, and England doesn't pursue the topic any further.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The realizations had come slowly, in dribs and drabs, and then all at once, a bittersweet blend of the little details Canada had begun noticing. France's hands were the first- long, elegant pianist's hands, spinning a wineglass or clasping Prussia and Spain's shoulders or tucking Matthew's hair behind his ear. That precipitated a great deal of observation- France's soft hair, his silk shirts, the way he smoked when he was upset, the way he saved the best pastries for Canada. He'd observed France, slowly falling into the sweet, warm flush of infatuation- and it was only then that he realized, to his own detriment, that France was drawn to England as if he were a lodestone. No matter where they were or what they were doing, if England was visible, France would watch him. He never stared, no, nothing so gauche; but every so often, almost unconsciously, he'd pause whatever he was doing to glance at England, turn ever so slightly to half-face him, gaze filled with some deep, unreadable emotion.It's that that sets Canada off. It's like Francis doesn't even notice he's doing it, and whenever he speaks to Matthew, he snaps right out of it, giving him his full attention- but whenever they're not talking, when Matthew's on his phone or chatting with America or preparing his presentations, he sees it. Francis, once again, glancing at Arthur.Arthur himself doesn't seem to notice, and perhaps that's the way of things, perhaps that's how it's always been with them, but Matthew can't reconcile that with himself, can't figure out how he could possibly fit into the picture."I'm not like them," Alfred had said, a long time ago. "Europe. They're happy with their fucked-up relationships, unrealized love, all that bullshit. I'd go crazy trying to deal with that."That's how Matthew feels now, just this side of crazy, for Francis hasn't cheated, hasn't left, hasn't actually done anything wrong. But there's that lingering gaze, subtle enough that Matthew would feel oversensitive for bringing it up- yet it's unmistakable and ever-present. Perhaps he, too, isn't like them. So, instead of saying anything to Francis, he makes for Arthur's house. He already has Alfred's view on the matter, so perhaps it's time to seek a different source.England's cottage triggers a familiar nostalgia in Canada. The first time he'd visited, he was only as tall as England's hip, eye-level with the rosebushes. He'd spent half that trip outside, playing in the gardens, unheeding of the early-spring chill. The chill is the same, now, but the flowers aren't blooming. It's late autumn, and dry orange leaves are scattered about the yard instead. Matthew kneels to pick up a maple leaf, turn it between his fingers, deep in thought. Then, at last, he approaches the door and knocks.Arthur opens it, smiling. "Come in," he says. "I've just put on some tea, and coffee, if you prefer. Scones, too."While the outside of the house is the same, Prussia's made his presence known inside. There are books written in Old German haphazardly shoved into the bookshelf, quite at odds with Arthur's neat rows of Shakespeare and Milton, empty bottles of Berliner Weisse stacked on the end table. But there are other signs, too; for once, Matthew doesn't smell anything burning in the kitchen."Hey," says Gilbert, leaning on the cabinets and looking utterly out of place, tapping away on his phone."Hey," replies Matthew. "How are you?""I'm well, thanks," he replies, casting an assessing gaze over Matthew's jeans and flannel shirt. There's something of judgment in it, and he's fairly certain it hasn't anything to do with his clothes- this is about that night, that night that he and Francis finally found one another and Prussia had slammed his glass down and left."That's good to hear," he ventures, as mildly as he can. "It's been a while."As England rummages about, setting a plate of biscuits on a tray, Prussia opens the fridge, then, and pulls out a beer, making his way to the sitting room. "Help yourself, if you want, Canada."He doesn't. This isn't a conversation he wants to be drunk for, not even a little. "I'm all right, thanks." And out of awkwardness more than anything else, he sits diagonally to Prussia, sinking in to the squashy armchair.Prussia laughs. "Sure you are. This is the first time I've seen you in a flannel since you and France started dating, you know.""That's true," adds England, emerging with tea, coffee, biscuits, and finger sandwiches. He really has gone the extra mile today- Canada's rather touched. "It's been all silk and trench coats, not that that's a bad thing- but it is decidedly Quebecois."Suddenly, Canada's worried. He hadn't indicated to England that he wanted a private conversation, per se, but he hadn't expected Prussia to be here. But it'd be too awkward to leave, at this point, and Gil's no blabbermouth. He's confided in him before, and he knows France well- perhaps, in this instance, three heads are better than two. So he settles in, pours himself a cup of coffee, and steels himself. "To be honest," he says, "I wanted to talk about France."His companions' eyebrows rise, both shocked by his directness. "And you came here," says Prussia, coldly, "to talk to England.""Eh? I- yeah, I mean- er, I'm not asking you to leave-""After what you asked him to do?""What the hell, Gil!" exclaims Matthew, already frayed nerves giving way. "You've been weird ever since France and I got together. Why? Seriously, why? Do you think I'm bad for him? What is it?"Green eyes widen. "Gilbert, don't-" but he's already speaking over Arthur."The Matthew I knew never would have asked Arthur to give Francis up for him.""W-wait, what?""This is all a terrible misunderstanding!" exclaims Arthur. "Gil, it was Alfred who asked, not Matthew. Poor Canada hadn't the faintest idea- well, until now, I suppose.""Fuck, sorry," Prussia offers, rather deflated. "Well. Still messed up, if you ask me.""What? Alfred asked you- he asked you to give Francis up?" stammers Matthew. "And you agreed? For me?"England's face creases, in a familiar, warm smile. "Of course, my dear boy. Of course I agreed. You were- are- in love.""Are you?"And his ex-guardian looks away, and pain shoots through his heart like a lance. He had loved Francis, just as much as Matthew, and he'd given him up, cut a piece of his heart off, just so that Matthew would have his chance."Arthur, I- I never would have asked that of you-""I was in love," Arthur interrupts. "But America was quite right, when he told me to let Francis go. To tell you the truth, I've been... calmer. Happier, even. I shan't deny it hurt, at first, but- he is never going to do what I would ask of him. It isn't in his nature.""What did you ask of him?" asks Matthew quietly. He thinks he already knows the answer, coiling and churning deep in his gut, but he wants to hear it aloud."I asked him to give up the others," Arthur admits, voice quiet and low. "To let himself be with me. To flirt all he liked, but come home to me. And I'll credit him this: he never lied to me, not once. He warned me he couldn't do it, and I continued our relationship anyway.""H-he watches you, you know. When he thinks I'm not looking. And- oh God, England, I-"The expression on his ex-guardian's face is awful, and pained, and Canada feels guilty for even bringing this up. Prussia darts a quick half-glance at Canada, and then shifts closer to England, just barely leaning against him."Go on," says England."Um, are you sure?""Yes." He takes a deep breath, huffs, and picks up his teacup. "I really am all right, my boy. It's just memories."Matthew takes a moment, choosing his next words carefully. "I watch him watching you. He's drawn to you, almost subconsciously- I don't even think he realizes it himself.""My dear Canada," says England."I think he- he's in love with you, not me, and I don't know what to do. It's not like he treats me badly-""Matthew.""-but he always looks so longing, as if I'm not enough, nowhere near enough, and-""Matthew- listen. You are enough." Arthur's fully leaned forward, eyes shimmering with that fierce protectiveness Canada remembers from childhood. "I will not tell you to ignore your instincts about France. But you must remember that the right nation will appreciate everything about you.""I wanted it to be him," he murmurs, squeezing his hands together. "So badly." A tear he hadn't noticed slides over his skin, dropping down to his hands, and he tilts his head further down to let his hair hide his expression.Then he feels Arthur's arms reach around him, presses his face into the army-green fabric of England's shoulder; and then he finally feels free to cry. He hears, rather than sees, Prussia take his leave, door shutting firmly behind him."I know," says England, voice thready. "I know, dear heart."Canada can at least comfort himself with that- he does know, better than anyone else, what it's like. "How is it," he mumbles, almost wanting to laugh through the misery, "that we both fell into the same trap?"England laughs lightly, pulling away to pat at Canada's wet cheeks with the cuffs of his sweater. "He can be sweet," he says. "Painfully so."A sniffle. "America said he never found France particularly romantic.""It's that Puritan streak. He never did trust the continental notion of romance." He smiles ruefully. "America might have a point there, actually."Canada scoffs, almost smiling again. "I don't know about that. You're mingling with the continent quite well."England turns red. "He's- he's German, not that sort of continental. It doesn't count.""I'm glad you found someone. Even though you gave France up.""Seeing you like this almost makes me wish I hadn't.""Almost?"England looks away, out the window, at dry red leaves rustling in the wind. "I find things are more peaceful, now. I don't think I could go back.""Even if he- even if he gave you what you wanted? I mean, Arthur- what I said wasn't untrue. He watches you as if he still wants you.""He spoke to me," Arthur admits. "At the EU meeting.""What did he say?""He asked what was going on between Prussia and I, and then, er- he talked a little bit about you. Matthew, I don't want you to hear this from me-""I need to. Please, whatever it is, I need to know. I feel like I'm going crazy, doubting him when all he's shown are these little signs-""You're right to doubt," says Arthur heavily. "He told me he loves you, more than he's loved anyone. But he loves you so much, he doesn't want you. Want you, meaning- er, in that way. Of course that bastard has some sort of blasted complex-"Matthew's stopped listening, at that, mind racing. He loves him, but doesn't want him? After all that, he still doesn't have enough appeal- doesn't have whatever je ne sais quoi England has, that attracts France like cat to catnip, doesn't have the raw beauty of Seychelles to overcome it, doesn't have anything, anything that could keep him, that could hold him in place, his gaze fixed. "The fact that he loves me-" and his voice cracks- "makes it so much worse."There isn't much England can say to that.Matthew cries himself out, and England's glad he's here, not alone in Ottawa. Once it's over, he carefully puts him to bed, tucks him into the guestroom's woolen blankets and shuts off the light.Then, he heads to the kitchen to put on a cup of tea, and spots Prussia smoking outside. Once it's brewed, he joins him there, in the cold fall air. They stand in silence awhile, watching the plants sway in the wind, plumes of smoke rising from Prussia's mouth."Is he all right?" Prussia asks, at last."As well as he can be," offers England. "Being with France... I mean, it took me centuries to learn how to do it without breaking my own heart every time.""France does watch you. Perhaps it's worth a visit."England half-smiles. "I don't think so. I want to tell myself our separation is for good this time."Prussia eyes him. "I was thinking I might visit Austria and Hungary."England turns fully towards him, then, no less warmth in his gaze. "You should," he says. "Leave your key beneath the flower pot."So that's what it is, then- permission to go, permanently even, but still a way back, should he desire it. Gratitude and fondness swell in his chest like a balloon, and his shoulders suddenly feel light, a tension disappearing that he hadn't even realized was there. "Thank you," he says. "Really. Thank you, Arthur."Arthur smiles, heading inside with his empty teacup. "The fewer broken hearts around here, the better."England blinks at him in the morning light, brows furrowed. "Prussia? I thought you were leaving."He turns to face him. "I didn't want to skulk away in the night. My flight's at 14:10 - is it okay if I stay for breakfast?"England smiles, yawns. "Very well. Come on, then."They pad downstairs. Somehow, every detail is more vivid to Prussia today than it was before, from the weak fall sunlight to the knit of England's sweater, and he reaches out to yank at a ratty stray thread. "You need new clothes.""Bah," his companion mutters, putting the kettle on. "This jumper will last another few decades, at least."They share the kitchen in comfortable silence for a while, until England asks: "So, you're going back to them, after everything?""I'm not sure yet, but... I thought it might be worth considering.""Why the change of heart?"Prussia watches the dry rosebushes shift in the wind, and thinks about his response. "Canada made me think," he says at last. "France loved him, even, and they couldn't make it work. It makes me wonder if we shouldn't try to escape the past. If France can't escape you, and I can't escape Austria and Hungary.""That's an awfully dim view of the situation.""I didn't mean it like that," he replies. "Going home is... it's good, and bad. Like nostalgia.""It takes effort to escape," observes England. "And if home is enough, if you don't need to, that's the best possible outcome.""Exactly," he replies, awash with hope at the thought. "Do you really mean it, about France?""That I don't want to go back and repeat our old patterns?""Yeah."A soft exhale. "I don't know if I could stick to that conviction if it weren't for America's unshakeable faith that it isn't the right way forward."Prussia laughs. "Ludwig's an absolutist too. I suppose I should count myself lucky he hasn't said that about Austria and Hungary.""We're both lucky," says England, glancing towards the stairs. Canada's still fast asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms. "Ready to go, then? I can drop you off- I'd like to surprise Canada with pancakes for when he wakes.""Just make the batter and stop there," cautions Prussia. "Let Canada cook. You'll burn them.""I won't." Meeting Prussia's skeptical gaze, he reddens. "I won't!""Whatever you say, England. Let's go, then?"And so it is that Prussia finds himself in the passenger seat of the Bentley, faced with a sorrow he didn't expect to feel at the thought of saying goodbye. They don't talk much on the drive- he watches Arthur, and Arthur watches the road, though Gilbert expects he's thinking about Matthew. It's as if Canada's visit heralded the end of whatever they had, as if with his and France's relationship ended, all the subsequent fallen dominoes must now reverse their directions, and return to whence they came."Have a good flight," says England, stopping at Departures. "I hope you find what you're looking for."Prussia smiles. "Don't burn the pancakes. And, you too."England finds himself at something of a loose end over the next few weeks. Matthew takes but a few days to recover before he leaves for North America, and afterwards, the cottage feels rather empty. He takes up knitting again to keep himself distracted, but it just won't do; he's restless and antsy, and absolutely needs a change of scenery. And so it is that he visits Trondheim, descends upon Lukas' house just to find him in the middle of a major food prep operation, salting what seems like weeks' worth of stockfish and hanging it in a dehydrator."It's not a bad time, is it?" asks Arthur, once he's sitting at Lukas' table with a cup of tea. "It rather seems like you're in the middle of something.""It is the right time," he says. "I was planning to go somewhere, and then you called- and I decided, fate must have led you here. So, now, we are going somewhere."He'd forgotten, for a while, the absolute comfort of being around someone who practiced magic just as much as he did- who'd met the fae, who had sage and charcoal candles and tarot cards tucked away in the basement. "Lady luck ensured I found you just in time. So tell me, then- where will she take us?""Dovrefjell.""What? The national park?""Yes." Norway turns to face him. "All this is for our journey. We will be climbing Snøhetta.""In November?"Lucas fixes him with a stern look. "All the better, to appreciate winter's beauty.""Well, then." All of a sudden, the idea doesn't sound so bad. "I don't suppose I could raid your basement for snow gear?"Sure enough, the basement, much like England's own, is a mess of keepsakes, paraphernalia, and military surplus from various eras scattered about. He's able to assemble himself just the sort of gear he'd put together at home - modern snow goggles, boots, and crampons, thick woolen trousers and jacket from the 40s. He considers the various backpacks scattered around, and in a sudden fit of nostalgia, ventures deeper still into the basement, deep enough that the wood begins to give way to a stone cave atop which the house was built. Normally, England would feel rather intrusive, venturing so deeply into another nation's basement, but he's seen Norway's before. He doesn't seem to mind his privacy, at least around England, and they often shuffle through piles of his paraphernalia side by side in search of a particular summoning-stone or scroll.At the back of the stone cave, there's an old pack. It's stayed cool and dry, for all these years, the pack itself made of animal hide and the frame of birch, and it's still sturdy. It's tempting; it reminds England of his own childhood expeditions, when the world was new, when he'd taken his first multi-day journey, walked south from London for three days and stumbled upon the lovely white cliffs of Dover."Take it," says Lukas, and Arthur jumps. He'd followed him in, at some point. "If it's calling to you, you must take it.""I don't want to damage it," he protests, wondering what memories this pack holds for Lukas."Did little America not damage yours?"That memory draws a smile. "I take your point. The memory is worth more than preserving the article behind glass." He reaches for it, swings it onto his shoulders. "Either way, I'll try not to damage it."They pack their supplies, that evening, sitting before the fire. And the next morning, Lukas shakes Arthur awake while it's still dark. "Wake up," he says. "We can't afford to waste daylight.""Mmmh- Gil-" and then he wakes up fully, taking in Norway's knowing look. "Oh, bugger. Yes, all right, let's go."He naps in the car while Lukas drives, and they reach Kongsvoll just as the sun begins to peek over the horizon.That little bit of light gleams, a golden nugget turning the black sky to orange-blue, and the two nations squirm back into their jackets and boots.Hiking with Norway, offline for a few days, England texts America. send pics comes the reply, almost immediately- of course America's staying up late again. And then England leaves his phone in the car, a weight dropping from his shoulders even as he hoists his pack and ties crampons onto the outside. Norway looks over at him from where he's lacing his boots up, attaching a pair of snowshoes."Ready?""Yes." As sleepy as he'd been before, it feels good now to be outside, inhaling the crisp, snowy air. The world is still asleep, even the animals. Other than a lone raven atop Kongsvoll station, everything is quiet save the howl of the wind, and the crunch of their footsteps as they set off.It's meditative, in its own way. The birch-and-hide pack is light on his shoulders, and the cold suits him far more than the blistering heat of the Middle East. Sometimes he forgets how nice it is to explore the wilderness without ulterior intentions, without research tools, items to trade, or weapons with which to make war. There's nothing to research, trade, or fight here, just him, Norway, and a far-off herd of wild musk oxen.They're about halfway to Reinheim cabin when Lukas speaks again. "Hungry?""Not dreadfully so, but perhaps we might stop for tea?""Or coffee?""With sugar?""Not unless you have any."They make their way behind a boulder, protected from the winds, and Lukas sets up the burner. Arthur adds ground coffee and snow to the pot. "We're making good time," he says.Lukas nods, and moves to shield the burner from the wind as it melts the snow. "I expect we will reach Reinheim early."They both watch the flame for long minutes."I'm sorry I didn't visit sooner," England says, at last. "How have you been?""Not so well," he replies. "America called last week.""About ISIS?""Of course. England, I do not mean to criticize him before you, when the two of you are so close- but the absolute gall of him, to ask for assistance with ISIS when his shale production, his dollar, is ruining my economy. On top of that, his president has refused to put any sort of pressure on OPEC." His lips are pulled into a thin, displeased line, and England's reminded sharply of the days of the Pax Britannica. He, too, had been in America's position."I'm sorry. Really. We're doing all we can to continue importing Norwegian oil, and I can meet with Italy and Spain again, to convince them-""Don't worry, I know you have done all you can. Fortunately, we have spent frugally, and we have our sovereign wealth fund to fall back on.""Are you going to help with ISIS?""I know well what my position is in NATO. Of course I will help." And he reaches out, ruffles England's hair like he did in the early days when he was a teenager and England but a child. "Let us not linger on such dark topics."England smiles. "How is Denmark, then? I expected to see him at your house."Norway shuts the burner off, setting the now-boiling pot into the snow. "Drink," he commands, so England does, heat spreading through him in lovely contrast to the cold. He passes the pot back, and Norway drinks too. "If you want to know the truth," he says, "I asked him for a break."Although England's tempted to ask why, the question is rather implied. So he just waits, instead. "We argued," continues Lukas, "and he accused me of arrogance, for expressing my concerns about the economy. He thought I was trying to- what is the phrase? Demonstrate my, ah, lordship?""Lord it over him?""Yes, that's it.""And?"Lukas eyes him quizzically. "And what?""That was all?" He and Francis have had worse arguments, much worse, and still come back to each other- but then again, that probably isn't the best comparison to make. "Or, rather- there must have been other factors.""Oh, of course. Mikkel is not- ah, I hate to say it, but he is not ambitious enough. He is happy, and content; like a lazy cat."To England, who interacts with Greece fairly regularly, Denmark doesn't seem especially lazy, but he knows better than to voice that. "It must be frustrating."His companion tips his head back and drinks the rest of the coffee, all the way down to the dregs. "Let us resume our walk. Perhaps I will have found the words to explain it, once we reach our destination."They continue onwards to the cabin, and Arthur grabs Lukas' arm in excitement when they finally crest one more hill and spot it, at the base of Snøhetta proper- a small brown cabin, with white-framed windows, stands out against the snowy landscape. "There!" he exclaims.They grin at one another, proper adventurers' grins, and finish out the hike with extra vigour- and once they're within spitting distance, Arthur shouts "Race!" and pelts for the door, Lukas just steps behind him. They run, kicking up snow behind them, and jam into the doorway together, laughing.Then, once at last they have their shoes and socks off, a fire going, dried stockfish in their hands, England reaches into his pack. "I brought some rum- care to share?""Once a pirate, always a pirate." But he takes the flask nevertheless, and they pass it back and forth in the sunset's pink rays. "About Mikkel. I don't know if it's ambition that is the issue, so much as stagnancy. You are not stagnant, England. In that sense, I wish to learn from you."That warms him from the inside out, even more so than the alcohol. "Thank you. I mean it. These days, it feels more like I'm trying to keep up, but America and China are always two steps ahead."Lukas shakes his head. "In proportion to their populations and landmass, it's admirable that you feel but two steps behind. Norway is not a large nation, nor are we rich in resources beyond oil and timber. It is you I must learn from, not them.""I'll drink to that."So they do, and Arthur continues. "I know what you mean, though. About the stagnancy. I felt that with Francis, sometimes. Being with him was-" he shakes his head- "lovely, but it felt like the past. And he, too, has no interest in progress. He wasn't always like that, though... he used to be so bright, Lukas, so inventive, so alive.""Do you miss him?""I miss him as he was. Him now... he hasn't been the same since, well, modern warfare. The Somme. Don't misunderstand, I still love him. But I miss who he was, and I know he'll never be with me properly, and... ah, I don't know.""Of course it is hard, when you still love him. It is hard for me, too.""I think Mikkel will change, though. He wants it, and you. I think all he needs is a little time.""I don't disagree," says Lukas. "But he needs that push. Francis is different, isn't he? You've given up."Arthur half-smiles. "Heard me dreaming about Prussia?""As a matter of fact, I did. What's going on with you two?"So he explains the whole saga, up until Gilbert's latest decision to go home, and Lukas winces. "I'm sorry," he says."Don't be, really. I knew Prussia's heart belonged elsewhere, and honestly, so did mine. And Alfred was right- my entanglement with Francis had to come to an end. There was no other way."Lukas exhales. "Well, he is certainly not stagnant.""America? No. He couldn't sit still to save his life.""Look," says Lucas, and Arthur turns."Oh, wow."They head outside, crane their necks to look up and watch the aurora borealis dance across the sky, a lovely pattern of greens and purples and blues. It's out there that they finish off the last of the rum, then head back inside to sleep once the aurora subsides.They wake up again at the crack of dawn, boil coffee quickly, both afflicted with summit-fever, the peak within sight. This part of the climb is more technical, and Lukas and Arthur lash themselves together with rope and tie their crampons on. England pushes himself through the cold and vertigo, climbing up and up and up. Thankfully, the mountain inclines gently, and their ice-axes prove entirely unnecessary. A few hours and the sky turns pink; then pale blue, and then the sun's overhead, and they're scrambling over iced-over rock piles, the summit in sight.Arthur's overjoyed when they finally reach the top of the ridge, looking out over the surrounding landscape. "It's beautiful," he says. It's completely snowed over, but he can see the clouds and the oxen and the gentle roll of Norway's mountains."It is, isn't it?" says a satisfied Lukas."Thank you for inviting me.""Thank you for coming. When I am out here, I feel as if all of my problems have disappeared.""I understand that. Lukas, tell me honestly- are you happy?""I am. Are you?""Almost," says England, tasting the truth of it on his tongue. "I'm awfully close. And this is what it will feel like, when I'm finally there."When Prussia lands in Vienna, he's having serious second thoughts. He lets the memory of the EU meeting push him forward - Hungary, at least, wanted to talk, and it was he who had run off. She was at least willing to discuss things. They've sent a driver for him, to the airport. He spots the man immediately at arrivals, dressed in a black suit and holding a G. Beilschmidt sign. Scowling- he intends to arrive on his terms, not theirs- he covers his distinctive hair and slips away, takes the 10 bus downtown and enters the first bar he finds."Ein hausbier," he demands, and the barkeep obliges. He sips at it, letting the familiar taste settle his nerves, and on instinct, pulls his phone out to text England, before he remembers he can't anymore, at least not for a while. "Scheiße," he mutters, and downs the rest of the beer. He pays, then stumps through the wet slush to the German embassy and has them rent him a car. After that, at last, he's on his way to Roderich and Elizaveta's country manor, situated right by the border. It annoys him how perfect it all is, even in winter: rolling hills, a lake full of blasted swans and weeping willows, it's like something out of a romantic film. The house he pulls up to is the same, too, all tall windows, barren flowerbeds he's sure erupt with life in the spring, and a sunroom-cum-salon whose piano he can spot through the windows.It's rural enough that Elizaveta, at least, hears his car approach, and opens the doors, rushing outside to greet him. "Gilbert!" she calls, so beautiful that it breaks his heart; hair down, green dress, greener eyes."Lizvet," he calls back, unable to resist a smile. It's the stuff of dreams, his Hungary so happy to see him."I'm so glad you texted," she says, once she reaches him. "I really thought, after our last conversation- well, it doesn't matter now. Come in, come in!""Wait- Öster isn't here, is he?""You knew he would be," she says, concerned. "I mean, Gil- he wants to talk, too.""He does? Really?""Of course he does! Come on-" and she leads him through the tall doors, into a long light-wood hallway, towards that well-lit salon he'd seen from outside.The utter familiarity of that dark-wood piano against light snow brings back a flood of memories, and he puts his hand in his pocket, squeezing a key tightly. England's spare- he hadn't left it under the flowerpot after all, but boarded the flight to Vienna with it in his pocket. An escape hatch, as it were- a reminder that he's here because he chose to be, that he's here of his own volition."Hey, Öster."That familiar figure turns away from the window to face him, and they regard one another. "You came," says Roderich, terse but not unwelcoming. He's known him so well, for so long, that he can tell Austria's stubbornly determined to be polite. If he's good at one thing, it's angering Roderich out of that stuffy, stick-up-his-arse mood; so he grins widely, and drops onto one of their expensive leather couches, one socked foot up on the coffee table."I did," he says. "And now I'm wondering if I should have brought beer.""We have wine," says Elizaveta, and he smiles at the familiarity of it all."It'll do."So she passes him a bottle, and a cork, and all his manners come back to him as he uncorks it and decants it carefully before offering her a glass. "Roderich," she says. "Join us?""Yes," he says, and sits. "Let's talk about what we're here to address." And then he turns that pointed gaze to Prussia, peering at him through his glasses. "England.""England?" asks Prussia, incredulously.Hungary glances at him. "I- we- it's a little unexpected, isn't it only natural we'd have some questions?""What did you think was going to happen?" asks Prussia, more than a touch of bitterness in his voice. It's as if that damned key is burning a hole through his pocket. "Did you think I'd just be alone forever?""We thought you might come back!" snaps Austria. "Verdammt, Gilbert! Or, I don't know, apologize?!""Apologize for what," he hisses. "For England? No. For the war? Fuck no. If you'd just helped me, instead of fighting me..."Roderich pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. "Not even here for a minute, and you are already arguing."His disapproval sets off an even worse twisting in Prussia's guts, building upon the apprehension that was already there. "Am I wrong?" he pleads, and even he can hear the desperation in his own voice. "Am I?"He can see the long-forgotten longing in Austria's gaze, then, and turns to Hungary, wordlessly pleading. The truth is, Austria's abandonment is painful, but Hungary's is worse. His first love, the sore spot he doesn't dare touch, doesn't dare ask England to playact, doesn't dare move for fear of the damage spreading. "Am I wrong, Lizvet?""I don't know," she says. "Who could say what would've happened?"She's not looking at him, she's looking at Austria, and he's moved closer to drape an arm across her shoulders. Something in that sets Prussia's long-buried anger off, and he frowns, somewhere between sorrow and rage, and rises to his feet. "You chose him, Lizvet. You chose him, and I can't be here.""If you didn't want to talk," says Austria. "If you truly wished to forsake me, on these grounds, you would not have come today.""Please, Gil," she says. "Don't leave. Let's try, at least- I mean, do you think I don't miss you? That I haven't missed you this entire time?"That, from her, turns his knees to jelly, and he sits heavily, pressing his hands to his face. "Fuck. I've missed you, too. More than you can imagine. I mean, I've even missed you, Roddy." He huffs. "Idiotic, really.""I have missed you, too," admits Roderich. And hearing those words in that voice, it releases a knot within Prussia he hadn't even known was there, an old, old pain."Scheibe. I- Roddy, Lizvet..." and there are tears streaming down his face, proper, fat tears he hadn't cried since they left him the first time, since he was all alone in the world until he found Ludwig. Elizaveta throws her arms around him, then, and wipes his face gently with her cuffs."Poro-ro," she says, in that sweet lilt, and then she's crying too, wetness spreading across the shoulder of England's black sweater. Austria, by contrast, doesn't move from where he is, but he's fully turned away."No need to pretend," teases Prussia, heart lightened. "It's all right."He doesn't turn towards them, but he shuffles towards them awkwardly, and sits stiffly beside Prussia until he laughs with a grateful, spreading joy, and pulls him in. It's almost like the days of childhood again, his cheerful Ungarn and bad-tempered, stuffy Öster beside him, back when he felt like he could do anything, like the world was his, like they were his, his land, his people. "I hate you both," he says. It takes all his control to keep his tone even. "Why'd you leave me alone so long?""It doesn't matter," Elizaveta hiccups. "Not a bit, not now. We won't do it again."Prussia isn't quite sure he believes that- and more importantly, he's not quite sure Austria believes that- but for the moment, it's enough.When England returns from Norway, there's nobody there to pick him up, no empty beer bottles, all his jumpers just where they belong. There's a nagging voice somewhere within him that tells him you should have made him stay, but he dismisses it. It would have been wrong to hold Prussia back, when he so clearly wanted to smooth things over with Austria and Hungary. It's his affair, and all England can do is wish him well.Sudden loneliness aside, it's still something of a relief to return home, to his familiar spice rack and tea and sage bundles. It's not long until America and Canada will be coming for Christmas, and he'll return with them for the new year; and after that, perhaps he'll accustom himself to the quiet again. He reaches for his copy of The Soldier, intent upon reading the sonnet he'd written on the slip of paper he slipped into it on the morning after he'd returned from the middle east, when he'd woken up in bed with Prussia.Long have I lived on the waves of the seaLonger still have I defended this landThere's but one way like a babe I can sleepRocked by the gods' great and terrible plansWhen I first learned love, to him I was drawnEnthralling, beautiful, slick as a snakeUnshakeable; lightning rod in a stormBut time changes all, for all of our sakes.Love needn't be rocky, nor sad, nor coldNor should it scald like the bonfire's flameIt is much simpler than I had supposedSo subtle I hardly gave it a nameClouds above; I await their cleansing rainFlame extinguished, love may spark once again.He himself can't remember who he'd meant by the last line, but he supposes that's rather the point. Alfred and Matthew brought that precious rain, and all he can do now is bear with it. He'll come out the other end just fine.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The new year begins with a bang, of course, though decidedly more muted this year. Even to America, the NYC ball drop has lost its charm, and he no longer insists they attend live. They ring it in on America's balcony instead, above the lights of the city, just the three of them."Cheers!" calls Matthew, lifting his champagne glass. "To a great year ahead.""To our continued prosperity," offers Arthur."To stayin' on top!" exclaims Alfred, grinning widely, and they drink. "Commonwealth, Five Eyes, NAFTA, NATO, EU," he continues. "All that shit, it's out there waiting for us, but this right here, this is what's important.""That's true in more ways than one," says Arthur, and watches Matthew's lips quirk up into a smile.When they wake up in the morning, hungover, that signals the end of the holidays; Canada's off home, and England's to stay in DC for a week, to wrap up some planning items before he follows suit. DC has fallen victim to torrential rain this winter, but England enjoys it. And in the midst of all the hubbub and paperwork and meetings, he receives a letter from Prussia. America's surprised when he finds it, pawing through the contents of his mailbox on their way to the White House. "What the hell? There's international post from Austria with your name on it, England.""Oh." He reaches for the envelope, turns it over and over in his hands. "It must be Gilbert, but why on earth wouldn't he text me?""Weird," America says, and watches him, undoubtedly curious about what the letter says."I'll read it tonight," England decides, tucking it away. And so he does, tearing the seal once they're relaxing in America's house, America himself absorbed in a video game.
YOU ARE FORMALLY INVITED
TO THE GREAT PRUSSIA'S BIRTHDAY PARTY
ON 22 JANUARY, 16:00
AT REZIDENSCHLOSS, DRESDEN, GERMANY
"What on earth," mutters England, and skips over the remaining logistical details in favor of flipping the card over. Thank god, Prussia's written something like an explanation on the back.
England, sorry I haven't texted for so long. Things have been going well. Better than I could have hoped. I couldn't have done it without you.
I miss you, you know. Will you come?
Gil
England frowns, leaning back, and America pauses his game. "My turn?" he asks, and England hands over the invitation. He scans through it quickly and then mirrors England's frown. "Well, it's a bit cold, isn't it?"England waves it off. "He's German, it's practically a declaration of eternal gratitude. I'm more concerned about having to attend. I mean, it'd be nice to see him happy, but, well...""I thought you were good for each other," says America, then cocks his head and reconsiders. "I thought he was good for you.""Perhaps we would have been good for each other, given time, but as it is, this is likely for the best. No cause for what-ifs or regrets.""As long as you're okay.""I am," he says. "Matthew instigating all this really was for the best.""Good. You can't go back to your old patterns, yeah? Honestly, Art, you weren't happy."He laughs gently. "We're too similar, Alfred. I know you meant to pull me from France, one way or another. I shan't undo your hard work. If I return to him, it will be on my terms."America watches him, ruefully apologetic. "Sorry. Seemed like you needed the push, back then, and what with Mattie...""I don't fault you," he says. "You must do what you feel needs to be done. In your position, there's no other way.""It's too much, sometimes. I just want to forget about the world for a little bit, and focus on myself- and whenever I do, things start to fall apart." Alfred suddenly seems very tired, and old, and England puts a hand to his shoulder."The modern age is rather unforgiving.""Isn't it? But then again, I can't imagine who I'd be without it.""Someone will wrest power from you," says England. "It's inevitable. Until then, enjoy this. You're doing quite well, America.""That means a lot," he says. "Really. Thanks, Art.""Angleterre," France says, there at the bar. "Angleterre, bonjour-""Yes, hello," says England, rather irritated. After having found that damned hair tie in his house, he's less than pleased to see him, even though they just spent five hours discussing traffic through the channel at the transportation summit. You were at my house, he wants to say, but refrains. There is something delicate about France, today- perhaps it's the dark circles beneath his eyes, perhaps that oddly manic energy. "Are you all right?" he asks instead. "You look exhausted.""Non, non," comes the reply. "I am not. Will you drink with me?""Since when have you had to ask?" he says. "Come on, sit- I don't know how nice the wine is here-""I do have to ask, now," he says. "You've become a stranger.""Hardly," England scoffs, and flags a waiter down. "House red, and a gin and tonic, if you would." The boy gives him only a blank stare in return, so he reluctantly switches to French, and repeats himself- then the waiter nods with relief, and heads off.France smiles tremulously. "Your voice is so much more beautiful when you- ouch-"England's whapped him on the head with the menu. "That's enough of that. Clearly I'm not all that much of a stranger if you still feel comfortable enough to make those jokes.""You have become a stranger. It feels like an age since we've talked.""It's been awhile, I grant.""You've been busy," France says accusingly.England raises an eyebrow. "As I recall, so have you.""It's good, then, that neither of us are busy any longer.""What? Does that mean-""Canada and I have called it off," he says morosely, and England looks into his deep blue eyes, swimming with regret, and can't help but feel some sympathy."It's for the best," he says. "Canada's like America. He can't live with being anything but completely and utterly adored, nor should he." The thought brings a smile to his face- that's how he raised them, after all, completely and utterly adored.The waiter arrives and sets down their glasses. "I am completely and utterly inadequate, then," says France, raising the glass to his lips. It leaves them red-stained and familiar, and England takes a long drink of his gin and tonic to quell the flip of his stomach. Francis' long fingers, golden hair, the languid way he's stretching across the seat, it's all too much."I haven't changed things between you and Gilbert, have I?" asks Arthur, the warm rush of alcohol beginning to take hold. "I didn't think it would be such an- er, issue, I suppose.""Nothing permanent," says Francis, "although the whole affair left me in shock. I mean, Gilbert!""He's attractive!""Attractive, but strange-looking, non?"England laughs, throwing the rest of his drink back and gesturing for another. "That just adds to his appeal.""Hush, you'll make me jealous." The glint in his eye suggests he isn't entirely joking."Enough about Prussia, then.""Yes, enough about Prussia. He is happy, now, with Austria and Hungary, and whatever it was, it's long over."Those aren't Gilbert's words, it's clear, but a squirming sets to in England's gut anyway. He doesn't know what he wants anymore, France or Prussia or both, but he pushes it down once again, schooling his expression. "Quite. I'm glad he's happy."Francis leans closer, with a tender, soft, expression. "So that leaves your happiness to see to," he murmurs."So it does." He can't meet Francis' eyes, knows if he does, he'll fall again, growth be damned. It's not that he wants to spend another cycle in France's chaotic pattern, but it's been so unexpectedly lonely-"I would take care of your happiness," says France. "If you let me, Angleterre.""What?""You, and no one else, as you asked of me so long ago.""You- you-" There's something filling England's ears, a hazy, faraway roar. "You want me? Back? Only me?"France smiles, then, helplessly. "We always return to each other, don't we? Eventually." He draws closer, and gently grazes England's cheek with long fingers. "Perhaps it's my fault, Anglais, for letting you go. I will not make that mistake again.""You won't?" He's still far enough in shock that he can't hear his own voice come out- doesn't know if he sounds hopeful, or flat, or sorrowful.Whatever it is, France's face falls. "I won't. Désolé, désolé, mon amour," and he gathers England in his arms, cheek pressed against his silk shirt.
Arthur rather wants to cry once Francis' tears drop to his shoulder, soak into the skin, but his own tears won't come. He's all cried out, left it all on his pillow when he left Francis all those months ago. "I don't know what to say."
He feels, rather than sees, France's contented sigh. "I missed you, Arthur. Let me come home with you tonight."
Upon hearing that, England withdraws, emotions beginning to stabilize. "Well," he says. "Look, I'm not certain yet, whether I'm open to- to trying again, with you."
"I know I have strayed, before, but I am promising you now- I will love you, and only you, Arthur. You know I keep my promises."
"You do. I- France- look, I don't know if this is realistic. Have you ever been with someone else properly? I mean, exclusively?"
"No, but-""Think it over," says England, draining his drink. "Call me when you figure it out. Don't rush in half-cocked, all right? Whatever happens, I can't have that chaos in my life any more. Yes?""Yes," says France, and England's glad to see it's finally sinking in for him, that England might not accept his offer. It's all he wants, of course it is, but he just isn't quite sure it's true.By dint of fortune, Francis does call, just a week after their conversation. "Matthieu was planning to leave me because of you," he says. "Did you know that?"Arthur brings a hand up, to massage his temples. "It's all such a bloody mess," he says, in lieu of responding."It'll blow over," reassures that familiar voice, and Arthur hates how it feels like slipping under a familiar, warm blanket, hates the way it sets his body at ease. "Come with me," he continues. "Come with me to Prussia's birthday party. I've learnt from my mistakes, Angleterre. Let me prove to you I will not make them again."That makes Arthur laugh. "Is that not, er, somewhat rude? To Prussia, I mean, and Canada.""Canada gave me his leave. And as for Prussia, what does he care, he has Austria and Hungary now; but, was it serious for you, England?""Not as such." It could have been, he wants to add, but doesn't, although his heart is squeezing in on itself. It's no use now. "I suppose it's fine.""Is that a yes, then?" France sounds so hopeful it brings a smile to England's face."A yes to the party. And we can see how things go.""I'm sorry, about before. I really am. Dieu, I was stupid to think that it'd be anyone but you, Arthur.""I loved you," admits England, and it's an enormous weight off his chest. There's silence on the other end. Then:"Loved?" France echoes, uncharacteristically tentative. "Past tense?""I'm not sure. Perhaps it's still there, buried deep somewhere. And, I'm sorry about before, too. You never lied to me about what you wanted.""I want a proper relationship, this time. The same as you.""I believe you," says England, and to his own surprise, he does. France at least thinks he wants that, and only time will tell if that desire sustains itself, or if it's just a flight of fancy. "Let's see how it goes."And so they do, some weeks later, tramping through the January snow to approach Rezidenschloss. Despite his half-broken heart, somehow Arthur surprises himself- he can't help but smile, smile at the charm of it all, at the simple pleasures of donning his old eighteenth-century cravat and coat and riding boots, revisiting the past. It feels as if the knot in his chest, one that he was barely aware of, has finally released; that he's able to feel the crisp white snow again, try to knock Francis off balance, people in cars watching them bicker in their anachronistic court regalia."Okay," says Francis, at last. "Stop. Stop! We're going to be late if you make me fix my hair one more time-""Here, I'll help," says Arthur, and their fingers brush over and past one another as he reaches up to finger-comb the back of his companion's head, and Francis shoots him an inscrutable look. "What?""Non, nothing. Come, let us go drink Prussia under the table."Prussia, as it turns out, has pulled out all the stops for this 1800s themed party. When they enter, they're announced: "Mr. Arthur Kirkland and Mr. Francis Bonnefoy," calls the hofmarschall, and Arthur and Francis exchange an amused glance. They never would've entered together during the actual 1800s, not when they were warring over colonies and the like. In fact, they'd sat across one another many a time in this very room, glaring daggers at one another."Welcome, welcome!" calls Prussia, opening his arms expansively, and the crowd of well-dressed nations parts for him. "Come in, my friends! Have a drink with me!"He makes his way towards them as Francis and Arthur descend the stairs, and hugs Francis first, then Arthur. "Thanks for coming," he murmurs, breath ghosting across Arthur's ear. "I wasn't sure you'd want to."Arthur can feel his warmth, his wiry frame, even through the black brocade of his tailcoat, can smell his musk of forest and stone, and taps his fingers together to suppress the urge to slide them beneath the tailcoat, as he might have once upon a time, and rest his head on Gilbert's tasseled shoulder. "Of course I wanted to," he responds, voice soft and low. "Happy birthday, Gilbert."It's then that he feels Francis' hand on his arm; and presumably, Prussia's felt the same thing, for he pulls back, and smiles at the both of them together. "Dare I ask what's happened here?""I don't kiss and tell," says France, winking, and England feels himself redden."Oh, shut it, you overstuffed peacock! We're, er- trying something different.""I see how it is," replies Prussia. "Very well, keep your secrets, if you can. There's an open bar tonight." And he smiles as two sets of eyes dart about the room, spotting the busy bartenders on the other side. "Go on, then. I'll catch up with you later.""Happy Birthday, mon ami," says Francis, and they both make a beeline for the bar.Prussia's on top of the world, today- he looks ravishing in black brocade, and he knows it. Neither Austria nor Hungary have stopped eyeing him all evening, especially when he hugged England a touch too long.It had felt good, though. Nice. Familiar in a different way than Austria-Hungary were familiar. He palms England's key again, now tucked into the inner pocket of his tailcoat, and presses his thumb against the edge. He really ought to give it back."Well?" says Hungary, approaching him. "Happy?""Of course I'm happy!" he exclaims, and takes her in his arms, spins her around again and again and again, the way he had so long ago, when his kings had grand Prussian balls here. She looks the same, after all these years- long, braided hair, perfect face, and her wide, ruffled skirt flaring around their ankles as he whirls her around and around the dance floor. The string quartet takes his cue and breaks into a waltz, and the other nations begin to pair off: Switzerland and Liechtenstein, Spain and South Italy, Germany and North Italy. Ukraine gently pesters a flustered Canada, who finally agrees to dance; and from the corner of his eye, Prussia spots America patiently teaching Japan the box-step. That sight amuses him enough that he turns Hungary a full hundred-eighty degrees so she can see it too, and she smiles. "Oh, my God," she says. "That's adorable.""You know, I don't see it."She smiles. "It makes sense to me. They're both obsessed with technology, like to stay up late, have those Puritanical social norms- they'll fit together like meat and potatoes, you'll see.""Kind of like us? Although, I suppose I'd be the potato.""I'd be the meat," she agrees. "And Austria the vegetables.""You are certainly the meat. Where would we be without you?""I don't want to know." Her eyes are sparkling with mirth, and she looks so, so beautiful- so he leans in, pulls her close, and kisses her. It's not deep, not probing, just a soft press of lips, but it makes his heart flip all the same. Both their cheeks are red when they pull away, and they spend a few bars trying not to look each other in the eyes."It wasn't like this last time, was it?" asks Prussia quietly. "It wasn't this innocent."She senses the change in his mood, and lets him twirl her right off the floor- then she takes his hands, and they retreat to one of the palace's many cavernous hallways. "I'm sorry," she says, once they're alone. "It wasn't. I knew you loved me, and... I knew what my people needed. But, Gil, I still loved you. Truly, I did. I still do.""No," he says. "No, I'm sorry. I should have known you just wanted- just wanted to free your people, whatever it took- I shouldn't have taken advantage." And he'd known, hadn't he, he could be blind but he wasn't stupid, but he'd been so in love with her; and she'd come to his door in the night, knocked thrice, candle in hand, and he couldn't resist."Oh, Gil," frets Elizaveta. He's frozen in place, hand against the wall to steady himself."I went to war," he says, hollow. "And I knew you wanted it, but I wasn't thinking. I really thought you came to me to become part of the Prussian empire, not just to even out the balance of power between you and Austria. I didn't expect you to help, but afterwards- afterwards, I thought you might..." Come to me, he wants to say. I thought you'd come to me, and unite your people with mine- and we'd show Austria how great the Empire could be, coax him gently into our arms. "I didn't think you'd just choose him, after everything."There's silence behind him, and he can feel another pair of eyes on his back. Austria's followed them."You put her in the position of having to choose," says Austria, and Prussia turns to meet his dark, angry gaze. "I thought you meant to let bygones be bygones.""I can forgive," he snaps. "And I'm trying. But I cannot simply forget.""Gil," says Elizaveta again, stepping between them to take his hands in hers. "Gil, I'm sorry.""If she has to apologize," interrupts Austria, "so do you.""I'm sorry, Elizaveta," he says. "I should have resisted your offer, given my suspicions. It'd have been the right thing to do."They pause, then, but no one speaks, as if they can tell he isn't quite done. "Well?" he says. "Take your turn, now, Österreich. Apologize.""I have nothing to apologize for," he says stiffly. "It is you who started the war.""So that's how you feel," Gilbert replies, ignoring the tearing in his chest. "That's the truth of it. I started the war. For nothing and no reason, by the way, and that's that.""I didn't say that. I simply meant to say, Prussia, that you owe me an apology."He laughs, a little unhinged. "Yes, well, I'm sorry I fucked you, had your fucking fingers inside me, and thought you might want to stay with me. I'm fucking sorry I didn't let your empire ride roughshod over Hungary. I'm sorry I ever thought I felt anything for you at all.""You don't mean that," says Austria. "You started that war to hurt me, and we can't begin again until that score is settled."He scoffs. "And now it is you who is chastising me over bygones." Elizaveta interrupts, then. "Please, Gil, can't you let it go and apologize?" she asks, almost begging. "After all these years!""I can't let it go!" he snaps, and then turns away and tries to calm himself, to articulate his thoughts. "I can't forget. You both, you weren't just mine, as a colony or an outpost. You were... you were me. God, how I loved you- you were me.""You were me, too, don't you see?" she pleads. "It would have happened naturally- we would have given in, merged, but you had to rush it-""You would have given in," he says. "You, perhaps- but not him." He meets Austria's hard gaze, and knows he's right. "The look he's giving me, even now. He'd never have merged.""He would have.""Would he? You chose him.""You're not the only one wronged," pleads Hungary. "Stop acting like it. You started the war, you devastated our people, and you won.""Austria-Hungary's people?" He smiles, tight-lipped and thin. "Clearly there was never a future for the three of us. Lizvet- Lizvet, I love you. I always have. But I can't talk to you like this. It was time, back then, and we missed our chance- Fritz was certain the time had come, that the empire had to act now, rather than later, to avoid losing ground-""Fritz!" she cries. "Gil, he was human! He was bent on now not because it was true, but because he wanted to live to see it.""Don't you dare talk about him that way," he hisses, guts twisting. "He wanted only the best for me.""I'm not denying it," she says. "But he... Prussia, he was in a hurry.""Maybe he was," he shouts mutinously. "What would you have me do, then? Go get England to do his verdammten black magic, drag Fritz from the grave, and tell him so?""No!" exclaims Hungary, close to tears. "No, Gilbert! Just stay! Just do what it takes, both of you! That's all I want!""Wait," he says. "I- I'm trying, Ungarn-""Just stay- please, can we let it go? I know I've hurt you, but the fault lies with all of us. Please. None of us could ever give in, and admit we were wrong. Austria and I shouldn't have left you alone, even after the war.""I- I was wrong too," he says, and the words feel like they're torn from his chest, bits and pieces of a bloody heart he's offering her. "Although I was trying to do what was best for us." He's still bubbling over with emotion- Fritz had insisted it was time, and he'd been right. Spain, Portugal, England, and France had begun exploring the world, and upon knowing Prussia, landlocked and prone to seasickness, Fritz declared continental expansion the only way to keep up. He'd been in love. She'd been- in love, albeit with caveats. Austria'd been... well, he isn't certain anymore, whether Austria had ever loved him."So was I," says Elizaveta, and Gilbert reaches out to dab at her wet cheeks gently."I know," he says. "I'm sorry.""It was such a shock to me, to hear about you and England. I thought you might have replaced us.""England?" That jogs him right out of his emotional brain-fog. "No, no, he's nothing like you.""And that's why you ran off to him?" asks Austria, eyebrow raised. "To try something different?"Prussia can't tell if it's Austria being combative or whether it's him taking everything the wrong way, but everything he says fucking grates on his nerves today. "I was lonely," he says baldly. "Desperately, dreadfully lonely. You wouldn't understand. You had Lizvet by your side, this entire time. So I went to England's house, and he offered me biscuits and whiskey, played his fiddle for me, took me to bed, and reminded me I exist. And I think I reminded him in return. And at the end of this fucking shit century I've had, it was a welcome relief."Some emotion flashes in Austria's eyes, and he turns away; and then his footfalls click-clack, further and further away, until they're indistinguishable from the noise of the grand ballroom."Say what you will about his usual punk-rock aesthetic," says Arthur, "but you must admit, Prussia's got style."Francis follows his gaze, up and up and up to the detailed frescoes painted across the ceiling, and can't help but agree. "This brings back memories.""Yeah, yeah," says America. "We get it, you're old. Reminiscing about the 1800s, God."Arthur offers Alfred a fond smile, but Francis has yet to rid himself of that unsettling feeling that found him during his and America's phone call. He offers him a half-smile and tries to ignore that piercing blue gaze."But those were the days, Alfred, some of the best days!" exclaims Arthur, gesturing expansively. "Not the balls, but being out on the open ocean, nothing but sandy islands and sea-spray and rum-""And scurvy-""-and a new world," finishes Arthur wistfully. "Right, we must go sailing again.""We will," says Alfred, clearly somewhat drunk himself. "And we'll go flying, and we'll go diving, and we'll go all the way out to Mars, Art! We'll get our frontier back, just wait and see-"Francis sits back and watches the two of them, the sparkling optimism in Alfred's eyes and the easy affection in Arthur's, and wonders if this, rather than him or Prussia or India or anyone else, is the great love story of England's life.They carry on, and although they include France, he feels like something of a third wheel, for all that he's England's date; so he wanders off instead, wineglass in hand, and makes for Prussia and Spain's familiar backs. Perhaps these are the true patterns they cannot escape, the bonds of companionship, those forever-relationships that are both deeper and shallower than romance, that can endure far more damage and return to what they once were. "Mes amis," he says, and they turn as one, and pull him in.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It all becomes too much, later in the evening, when he spots Prussia make his way toward America and England, say something to them; and England rises from his chair, hand in Prussia's, and waltzes with him. Francis weaves out onto the floor, quite drunk by this point, and cuts in."Allow me," he insists, all but elbowing Prussia out of the way. His friend looks at him quizzically, but allows it, rejoining Spain at the bar, and he begins to spin England around, with less than his usual grace."Oi," protests England, "come now, it's his birthday, isn't it- why not go have a dance with Canada, honestly I still don't understand why that didn't work out-""Really?" And he takes England right off the floor, presses him into an alcove at the side of the ballroom. "You really don't know?""I know you had a wandering eye-""It wasn't a simple wandering eye." Francis turns to grip England's upper arms, looking down at him. "It was because of you!" he hisses. "You. I love Canada, but I don't want him, not the way I want you, want to tip wine down your throat and take you on the staircase- and you, taking up with Prussia, that- merde-""Jealousy is unattractive on you," snaps England, throwing one of France's lines right back at him. "And not a word against Prussia. He's your friend, or have you forgotten that too?""I have forgotten a great many things. Most importantly, England, I have forgotten how important you are to me. I would break every vow I have ever made, to have you back; to go back in time and fix the mistake of letting you go. God has shown me what I am, and I am not- I am not someone who can be without you.""You're drunk," says Arthur, not unkindly. He reaches out and tucks golden locks behind his ear. "Francis, I just want you to be honest with yourself.""You're drunk too," he says. "You're swaying."Arthur laughs. "No, you're swaying.""Fine, walk in a straight line."England tries, and tilts once, twice, catches himself on his hands. "Fuck."Francis laughs. The commotion has caught the others' attention, and Spain calls, "Now you, Francia!" He steps, stumbles; meets the same fate as England, sprawled across the floor, and America bursts into laughter."Well, that's that, party's over for us, folks. Happy birthday, Prussia, and congratulations- I'll see you next time. Gonna take Art and Mattie home today."He kneels, coaxing England onto his back, and Arthur, relaxed, shuts his eyes and wraps wiry arms around America's neck as if there's no better place to be. "Night, Prussia," Arthur murmurs, and reaches a hand out- Prussia catches those fingers in his own, for just a moment. "Happy birthday."Then the rest of them say their goodbyes- most everyone has cleared out, by now- and soon, it's just Prussia, Spain, and France again."Well," says Prussia. "Nightcap?""Where did Roderich and Elizaveta go?" France asks, once they're sat at a sticky dive bar. The bartender had asked if they were from a renaissance faire; they'd nodded yes, and he'd let them be. "I expected them to take you home."Prussia sighs. "Don't get me started. I'm not even certain we're together anymore.""Well, now you've gotten started," Spain points out."Not that much, I can back out."France takes his time before he speaks, careful to choose the right words. "Gilbert," he says. "You didn't tell us about it, the first time, and we drank with you every night for months, and you were unspeakably miserable.""Fuck off, if my company's that miserable-""Gil," he interrupts. "I don't want you to be miserable. If you can speak about it, I think you should. You know we will keep your secrets."He glances at them, then, with those red, red eyes, and Antonio knocks his elbow lightly. "Don't back out," he says. "Francis is right. It's time. It's been over a hundred years, my friend.""Over a hundred years!" he exclaims. "You know what, you're right. It's really just a rehash of the war, anyway."Francis signals for another round, and Prussia takes a deep breath, and begins his story."I'd say Roderich came first. Austria. I mean, strictly speaking, Elizaveta came first, but you already know I loved her since childhood. But, once I started dreaming of a German federation, it somehow got-" he gestures expressively- "all tangled up. Lizvet wasn't entertaining me or Roderich, at the time, and we kind of, well, fell into bed together. We were both in love with her, and we couldn't stand each other- I suppose it was only natural. And then, Roderich and Elizaveta, you know what happened between the two of them. She wanted more control, and he wouldn't give it."Now Prussia swallows, hard. "She came to me," he says. "In the middle of the night, in her white-silk chemise. And she said she believed in me, and would I help her- she stated nothing outright, but she- she held my shoulders and kissed me, and we... you know, and I thought it was love. I thought she really did believe in me, that she wanted to be a part of the Prussian Empire- fuck, I was so fucking stupid. And you know what happened afterwards. I defeated Austria, and I had enough affection left for him that I let him be; and Lizvet got her wish, her control over Austria-Hungary, and she went right back to him."France watches his friend swallow again, knows he's trying to control his emotions- and Prussia reaches into his pocket, pulls out a very familiar key, and turns it over and over in his hand, pressing his thumb hard against the edge. Isn't that England's, France wants to say, where did you get that why do you have it but he can't, not now. "And you tried to avoid them for a hundred years," he prompts, and Gilbert exhales."Yeah. And Lizvet told me she wanted me back, and I came running, no surprise there.""You seemed happy about it, though," says Spain wistfully. "But, dios, mi amigo- your history is painful beyond belief. You cannot blame yourself.""I see why you didn't want to tell us," adds Francis, stomach twisting. "Mon dieu, they are using you as a pawn in their thrice-damned game with each other-"Haunted eyes meet his. "Even now?" Prussia demands. "Do you think so?""Your mood today is answer enough," he says. "What did they say?"So Prussia relates today's argument, Austria's anger and Hungary's guilt and all the rest of it. "I can't live with it," he says. "I can't live with them, or without them. They're part of me and not, and I can't fucking stand it.""As a wise, grey-haired nation once told me," says France, "that's the problem with being with someone you love.""I'll drink to that." And they do.England awakens slowly, with a pounding headache, and groans."You okay?" says someone softly, and he turns to see America on the other bed, tapping away at his phone. "Talk quietly, Canada's still sleeping.""I've had worse hangovers," England whispers. "You?""Major headache. Want to get coffee?""Let's."So they get dressed as quietly as they can and sneak away, finding their way to a cute little tea shop in a burnt husk of a building. England takes a sip of his tea and sighs with satisfaction, smiling as America unconsciously mirrors him."This is surprisingly nice," America says. "Despite the exterior."A half-smile tugs at his lips. "The exterior is my fault, although I can't regret it. But the German people are resilient, aren't they? Dresden feels as if it's in the midst of a revival.""You're so optimistic these days, England.""Am I?" "You're... happy," says Alfred. "Not that you weren't before, but it was usually a fragile sort of happiness, like it'd disappear the moment some new crisis came your way. I've never seen you the way you are now."He nods, taking in the truth of it. "Life feels different.""Yeah?""Yeah.""Prussia really was good for you.""He made me feel safe."America nods, thoughtful. "Could you have loved him? More than Francis, I mean.""Yes," says England wistfully. "Yes, I could have, given time. But what of you, America? I spotted you and Japan dancing yesterday.""Yeah, you gave me hope as far as romancing nations I've previously war-crimed-""Alfred!""Kidding, kidding. I like Japan, I do, but it won't go any further, at least not for now. Pearl Harbor's too fresh, Hiroshima and Nagasaki too. Our people have moved on, but, well... it's not just that. It's Pax Americana, as you like to say.""Indeed. No need to rush it.""Anyway, I'm not totally sure it'll be him yet. There's Mexico, too.""What? Really?"Alfred spins his cup on the saucer. "We're warming up to each other.""I have no doubt you'll choose well, America."And Arthur doesn't think he's imagining it when, on their slush-covered walk back to the hotel, Alfred's smiling a little brighter.Prussia isn't at home when he awakens. He's in Spain's hotel room, and he feels absolutely disgusting. Tiptoeing past a snoring Spain, he turns on the water and fills up the bath, massaging pounding temples. Memories from last night flood in, almost against his will. Austria had all but rejected him, and Lizvet had chased after Roderich- and then Prussia'd asked England to dance, so that he wouldn't burst into tears at his own party, had let the familiarity soothe him, enjoyed the feeling of being wanted.He doesn't know what he's going to do. The key's still safe in his pocket- come to think of it, he's half-surprised France didn't steal it- but it'd be unfair to return now, when England's negotiating his relationship with France. He has to go home, and think through things- Berlin, that's where he needs to be. Or right here in Dresden, that would work just fine. He can look at the ruins of his bombed city, and unlike last time, instead of despairing behind the iron curtain, he can plan to rebuild, to be properly happy again.That thought settles him somewhat, and once he leaves the bathroom, he finds Spain awake, too."Cafè," mutters Spain. "Por favor."So Prussia takes pity on him and calls room service, and they wheel up a traditional frühstück with coffee. Once he has his coffee in hand, Antonio takes a long sip and leans back in his chair, exhaling. "Madre de dios, last night was dramatic.""Spanie, ach- I know, I know. We don't have to talk about it."His friend sighs, looking rather put-upon. "But we do. Listen, Francia told me everything, once you passed out. Prusse- he started the rumor. About you and England.""What the fuck? Why?""Apparently-" and Spain relates the whole story, how France came all the way across the channel and found them asleep, then kicked up a fuss at Belgium's house in the middle of the night before returning to Paris."So France is in love with him," says Prussia. There's a strange, heavy feeling in his chest that he doesn't want to think about too much."We should have guessed, really. The more he denied it..." Spain trails off, and they gaze at one another over their plates."I mean, scheibe- ach-""Prusse," says Spain."No, I'm trying to say something. I am. Should've expected it really, him and England, all these years- and now he's back, trying to sort things out with England again-""Gilbert! As little as I understand the fuss over England, of all nations, you shouldn't let him go because of France.""What?""It doesn't matter anyway. America told him to stay away from England.""America did what?! I didn't even think he liked me very much.""It wasn't like that. He told France that even if England left you, he'd never return to France again.""And how exactly is America planning to guarantee this?"Spain shrugs. "He isn't. He just implied England wouldn't want to go back.""Well." He sits back, and regards his friend. "Seems like every nation is elbow deep in my business."A snort. "It's all your fault for getting tangled up with England, and America by proxy.""At least America likes me?" When he thinks back to their meeting, that day at England's house, he's fairly sure that isn't true - but he at least thinks Prussia's better for England, so that's something."That hardly offsets the drama. But, amigo, do what you must. I would see you happy, before anything else.""Happy," muses Prussia. "I suppose you're right."Thankfully, only Spain and France know about what happened; so when Prussia returns to Berlin, nobody wonders why. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, this is just a routine visit he's paying to Ludwig, and that's the way he wants to keep it. There's no reason everyone must be aware of his affairs. For his part, he's doing his best to ignore Hungary's calls. She's not the problem, Austria is -- and the man he once thought was his is far too stubborn, far too selfish, even, to ever be his. He won't give an inch, and Prussia can't quite believe he didn't see it before, see that he was chasing an impossible dream.They're his past, his heart- but the way England melts into him, the way he stocks Berliner Weisse when he knows Prussia's coming, the way it could transform, could become love if he gave it some time, that's what sticks in his mind, replays over and over. He can't chase any longer; he's old, and his heyday is done. Prussia wants to be caught; caught for good, in fact, but they are nations, so at the very least for a long, long time, as close to permanent as possible. He finds himself missing England more and more, turning the key over again and again, pressing its divots into his thumb.It's then that he decides; rather anticlimactically, all things considered, but it is what it is. He cannot continue with Austria and Hungary, with those nations he'd loved, adored, who would let him go at the drop of a hat. He and England have their own history, and still, England had let him go, yet offered him a way back. If that isn't freedom, if that isn't love, Prussia doesn't know what is.He stays in Berlin for months, just existing and avoiding the world, and at last, he receives a text from England. Busy? it says, and his heart leaps."Can we talk?" asks France. It's but a few weeks after Prussia's birthday party, and they haven't spoken much; England suspects France isn't too happy America took him home, but England himself is rather grateful. It'd be child's play for France to seduce him back into his bed, and despite the allegations, England wasn't cold by nature. Every nation he slept with, he felt deeply, deeply connected to, in one way or another.Yet they're at a conference now, it isn't a social call. "Why not," he offers, mind on work. "We can address the Calais tax issue-""Save that for later," grumbles France, dragging him outside by the elbow. "I need to talk with you."That leaves England somewhat rattled- after all these years, France's English is good enough that he never makes such mistakes. With you, not to you- "France," he says. "Are you all right?"Finally, once they're outside, his ex-lover drops the cheery facade, turning to face him. "No," he says. "No, I am not. England, who am I?""Tu es François," says England, in old French. France looks shaken, worryingly so. "Comment poïses-tu oublier, fol?"How could you forget, fool, he'd said, and France smiles tremulously. "I am, aren't I?""Of course you are. What's all this about? Has something happened?""You are such a dear, close friend of mine, England."Green eyes narrow. "France.""I can't live like this," he says abruptly, with less than his usual grace. "England, you must make me commit to you. Force me, if you must. I would be happiest with you, I hope you know that.""You're asking me to force you to be with me? Francis, have you gone mad-""I have not!" he exclaims. "England, I- I know I have my issues. And I know that I have hurt you. But at the same time, you are the only one who can tie me down, can keep me happy by your side. And I want you to, dieu, I want it-"England frowns. "What exactly are you asking of me?"He sighs, running long fingers through his hair, as stressed as England has ever seen him in peacetime. "I know myself. I have a wandering eye, I have a habit of flirting, but still, I cannot be without you. I am asking you to- to hold me in place. To force me to stay.""I'm not going to force you to do anything, France.""But you must, or else I will lose you, to- to-""Prussia?" asks England. "Is that what you're afraid of?""England," he says, desperate. "Would you rather have a clean slate, with him? Rather than returning to me? I am your oldest friend, a slate perhaps used, but notched, worn down; and I haven't broken, all this time. We've remained, you and I. You know we won't break so easily."There are a thousand things he wants to say. Don't I deserve someone who wants me, don't treat me as someone disposable- but the problem is that France does love him, loves him enough to ask England to help him fight against his nature. And England loves him, too, but he would always feel second best, if he had to pin France down.England gazes at France- at his hopeful expression, at the depths of affection in his deep blue eyes, and feels his heart break for the last and final time. "I can't," he says. "I can't put any more energy into holding us together. Gods, France, I want a clean slate- I want my second chance, and I don't give a damn if it breaks, I'm going to try. I can't give any more to you than I already have. I couldn't force you to stay then, and I can't force you to stay now.""That was because you did not issue me an ultimatum-""Of course I didn't, I couldn't, could I? I love you! I couldn't see you trapped!"France just gazes at him, solemn and glassy-eyed."Do you understand? I've given all I can, I can't force you to do anything, I- this is it, France, this is all I have, and it isn't enough. Not for you, and not for me."His ex-lover pauses for a minute, and then speaks, voice rough. "So it seems America was right after all.""Hush, not entirely. You are right that we haven't broken, France, and this shan't break us either." He takes France's hand in his, squeezes tightly. "Friends?"Francis squeezes back, with surprising ferocity. "Friends, allies... always."When he texts Prussia- Busy?- England doesn't particularly expect a response. It's been a while since they've spoken. Nevertheless, if he can be friends with France, after all this, there's no reason he can't resume his friendship with Prussia as well. But the reply he receives surprises him. No, it says. Can I come over?So it is that he finds himself driving to Heathrow on a warm summer's day. Prussia emerges from arrivals, still dressed in black, seemingly oblivious to the heat, and England can't help but smile. "Gilbert!" he calls, and he turns around and spots England, then breaks into a grin of his own."Come on, pull up a bit," he calls, and bangs his duffel into the trunk. "God, this is nice, you wouldn't believe how hot it is in Berlin right now.""Is it?""Ja, and Ludwig won't install air conditioning, damn it. Oh, what's this?"There's a six-pack of Berliner Weisse at his feet, and England looks away, certain his cheeks are red. "Well, you always drink it, so I thought I'd pick some up-""Did you.""It's just, I wanted to be a good host-""Arthur." He feels fingers at his jaw, and turns his head to look at Prussia. "Thank you." And Prussia considers him with those rose-red eyes, gently tilts his head- and then leans in and presses thin lips to England's, brushing a thumb across his cheek. "I missed you," he says, once he pulls away, and Arthur's gratified to see his cheeks are red, too."I missed you, too."Someone behind them honks, then, and they both laugh. "Shall we?" asks England. And they finally make their way home.America likes when England's in DC. They get on well, and England's always full of advice, whether America requests it or not, and they can eat burgers, quibble, and drink themselves silly without the other nations, so they won't have to hold their tongues. It's during one of those sessions that he asks England: "What should love feel like? I just- I mean, there's Japan, and there's Mexico, and it's just... what do I do?""Love," says Arthur, swirling his old fashioned as if it contains the answer. "Some say it's intensity that makes love, that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. There's some truth to that, I suppose."Alfred laughs. "Yeah, Hollywood says that for sure.""Some say love doesn't exist, that it's naught but familiarity. But, I don't know about all that. I'd be with you or France, were that the case.""Forget what people say. What do you think, Art?"He gazes into the distance for long moments, then turns that green gaze on America. "Love needn't be dramatic. It's as easy as breathing, and just as natural; it's as if a part of you that was always there has finally awoken, has finally felt safe enough to unlock."They sit in that for a minute."Do you feel safe?" asks Alfred."I do. Do you?""Not yet. But I could, I think.""Well," says Arthur, and raises his glass. "To love, wherever it may find you, my dear boy. And don't be afraid to take risks- I will always be here to catch you, as you did me."