The differences we make

The glass pyramid was an ugly wound in the heart of the town. The man that had created it probably had some really poetic and long description about the symbolism of the work and the intentions of the construction and a bright future and what more. But the fact remained no amount of symbolism would make it stop looking like a thorn from an evil vine springing up in the middle of town, its broken and mismatched tip giving the impression a claw from some beast or the decaying and menacing remains of an old witch's castle had broken through the ground to poison everything around it.

As vile as it looked, at least it was true that the broken Shard offered the best view of the town, even better when you went even higher than the floors opened to visitation. From the roof of the building, one could see the Tames worming it's way till the horizon, and around it the city of London stretching in every direction, its infinite lights illuminating the night sky. Old, regal, powerful, mystic, new, vibrant, technological, busy London.

Arthur Kirkland – codename "England" – hated it with a burning passion.

Everything about the city – about the whole country actually! – was wrong. Corruption, weakness, spineless people in charge, an island that used to rule the world turned into nothing more than a cute vacation spot, it was disgusting. It was painful for Arthur to watch these people, these rats, ruining his country, his country. Perhaps what Arthur hated the most was that it wasn't his quite just yet, but it would be soon, oh it would. The leaders of the "World Organization" already had everything planned out, and Arthur and all the other agents worked hard every day to ensure every single one of those plans got put into motion.

Right now, Arthur's next mission was etched into his brain. The details for it had come through this morning, a package left in his table while he was out enjoying a cup of tea and a late breakfast, the messenger gone before he could even lift his head. As it was procedure, he had memorized all the details and then burned everything until nothing was left. It was imperative no one outside the Organization knew about its existence or the involvement of its members in all the tragedies that had been plaguing this world for the past decades.

In many ways, this next job was simple – a single target, low exposure, fell right into the scope of Arthur's abilities – but he knew things were hardly ever as easy as they looked. If this was a normal mission, there would have been no need for the leaders to send that guy to aid him.

The Demon Soldier of the World Organization. His fame among the rest of the agents was legendary, in the most literal of senses since everyone in the organization, except for a select few, thought he was dead. Some of the newer recruits even believed he had never existed and it was just a story to inspire them to give their best. Arthur knew better than to tell him that though. With the way the man's ego shot through the roof, being casted out as a fairy tale would drive him insane and no one wanted that.

It wasn't the first time they had worked together. At that time, the other was still "Germany", the agent that would inherit said country and would rule over it once the Organization had taken control of the world, and was already a rising star among the agents. And Arthur was in the same level. At a point, the leaders apparently decided they were most effective together, cause their assignments were almost always to be completed as partners. Neither of them liked it, working with a partner or each other, but it was the job. And time didn't make it easier. Somehow, it only made it weirder and weirder. It was very strange, not standing a person and yet still feeling like you knew them best than anyone else.

Looking back, Arthur should have guessed that if anyone would have survived a situation like that, it would have been him. As powerful as the mighty Germany was, though, he wasn't immune to betrayal.

His protégé, a boy he had taken over his wing and had been training since young, turned against him, allied with other agents to kill him and took his place in the Organization. For many months, Arthur had believed him dead, until he received an assignment that mentioned he would be partnered with "Prussia", which didn't make sense. There was no agent with the codename Prussia, because there was no such country anymore, it didn't make any sense.

So of course when said "Prussia" had arrived, he had been shocked to recognize the face of the man that should have been dead. The other never gave the details as to how he had survived, only said now he was a ghost agent of the organization. For all that was worth it, he was dead, he didn't exist, though he continued to be sent out in classified missions on his own. They weren't partners anymore, if they ever were, but sometimes, in particular important or difficult missions, the leaders would still send him to England.

He was what Arthur was expecting at the top of the Shard. The meeting place and time had been specified on the instructions and Arthur wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying he was late, so he arrived early and was waiting for him. It was almost time, he was expecting the other to get there at any moment.

He wasn't expecting the knife to his throat.

"Letting the enemy sneak up on you so effortlessly, are you sure you are the famed Pirate of the Seven Seas? Pathetic.", said a disgusted voice in his ear.

The knife pressed a bit further and Arthur could feel the stinging pain and a small trickle of warm blood seep through. The blade was also warm and from the edges of his vision Arthur could see it was deep red.

Thinking better, perhaps he should have been expecting a blade to the neck. Typical.

"Do you really think you can accuse me of anything when you yourself are approaching your enemy without analysing the battlefield properly? Master strategist my ass, I could have killed you ten times already."

"Oh yeah? We are not exactly at your element here, what makes you so sure?", the voice in his ear vibrated dangerously, excitedly, and Arthur felt his own heart racing with the imminent thrill of battle. He laughed, the movement making the knife press further into his throat.

"This is London, idiot, we are always at my element. Look down."

His city did not disappoint. It wasn't raining now but it had rained earlier, so the ground, the buildings, the glass, everything was still wet and the air was still humid. Even here at the tallest building of all, there were still puddles in the floor. And right now, out of those puddles, Arthur had created ten stakes made of solidified water, shooting from the floor with their tips mere millimeter's away from the other's body. Each of them pointed straight at a vital organ or major artery, making true to his word: if he wanted, he could have killed the other ten times already.

The man known as Prussia, damn bastard that he was, looked down and did not seem the least bit scared or even impressed. Instead, he just laughed.

"Sure, yes, if that makes you feel any better about yourself, let's pretend you could for a second dream of killing me." Arthur gritted his teeth, the stakes shot forward at lightspeed-

And promptly broke off and shattered when hitting a hard material surrounding the other's body. Through the holes in his now thorn clothes, the material was as red as the knife in his hand. He whistled.

"Impressive. How did you know I was wearing an armour?"

"I didn't, now get off of me or the next one will blast through your skull."

The other laughed again, but the knife got pulled back. Arthur turned around in time to see him licking his blood from the side of the blade as if it was a treat, before the knife liquefied and vanished, probably back into his own body. Free from Arthur's influence, the ice spears also reverted to their natural state and rained down on the floor. He idly passed his hand on his neck, whipping away the rest of the blood. The cut was already healed.

"Making a spectacle out of yourself as always. Was that really necessary?"

"Somewhat. I had to check if you were still good or had turned into a complete useless idiot since you didn't have me to make you great anymore. Mainly it was just entertaining."

Arthur rolled his eyes. He knew exactly how "entertaining" Prussia thought near death experiences were, it was showing on his face right now as he approached him with his hand extended. The Demon Soldier, the name as fitting to his skill and personality as it was to his appearance. With those white skin and hair, those glowing red eyes and that deranged smile with sharp teeth, he did look every bit like a ghoul, a demon that came to earth with the sole purpose of killing and destroying and having the best of times doing it. If Arthur didn't know he was actually on his side and shared with him and the Organisation the desire to save this earth instead, he would never dare to extend his arm as well and shake his hand.

"I have become even better now that I don't have you dragging me down, Prussia."

"I seriously doubt that, England. Long time no see. I think the last time was that submarine explosion?"

"Two years ago, yes." The other man gave out a long whistle at that.

"Wow, that has been a while."

"Not enough, if you ask me." Arthur pulled his hand away from the other and adjusted his jacket. "I don't know why you always insist on meeting up in such high places, let's get out of here and back to my hotel, we have business to discuss."

"So forward." The smirk tugging at Prussia's lips made it clear he was certain he could see right through Arthur. It was probably true, no matter how hard Arthur denied it to himself. "Ok, let's go then. Show the way"

The other was examining his own hand intently, for some reason. Only when he turned it to the side a bit Arthur could see the red smudge in it. The blood that Arthur had absent-mindedly brushed off into his hand and then shook the other's hand with the same one. Arthur's heart stopped for a second then raced when Prussia confirmed his dreaded expectations and proceeded to lick the blood off his hand the same way he had done with the one in his blade, from his palm to the tip of his fingers.

Arthur wished that gesture didn't bring back so many memories, and that the shiver running down his spine was of disgust. He turned his back to the other and marched to the exit, hoping the walk back to his hotel would clear both their heads off this madness and focus into work.

Gilbert would never get used to this. These sparse times he had to work with England again.

It had been relatively easy to go back to action after he had fully recovered from the attack to his life planned by the little brat. Gilbert could have resented many things but at least he had taught him well, the planning and execution to the attack had been perfect, if he wasn't who he was he would have been long under ground now.

But alas, he was, so he had woken up a couple of days later, inside an infirmary in a secret wing of the Organisation. It hadn't been much of a shock, honestly, organisations such as these always had layers and layers of secrets and back up plans, the existence of a whole new level of secret agents was just another cherry in the cake. Honestly, Gilbert was more shocked he hadn't found out about it before or at least suspected it, these people had spent millions of dollars on research to make them and train them, it was foolish to imagine they would let any of them get away.

He wasn't the only one of the "dead nations" as he had found out soon enough. There was Rome, Old Egypt, Persia... even his old mentor, the man that had recruited him, was there, now answering by the name of "Germania", though Gilbert hadn't met with him yet. He didn't even want to think about how that would go down.

After the initial adaptation period, things had pretty much gone back to normal: the Organisation would give him an assignment; he would fulfil it and then go back. If the missions were more dangerous or tricky, it had made no difference to him, except... When they had sent him to aid England for the first time.

The fact Gilbert was still alive was in the highest level of secrecy, as the new "Germany" and his allies probably wouldn't take it very well to the knowledge, but England had been deemed trustworthy enough to know, as long as he thought it was only Gilbert and didn't suspect of anything else.

Gilbert knew that England could be trusted, but that didn't make him want to meet him any more than before. For the first time he had actually considered turning down an assignment, even though he knew whether he wanted to go or not made absolutely no difference to them. He would have to go anyway, orders from the leaders were absolute. He didn't even know why he was dreading it so much, it was not like he cared about England or anything. But still...

Meeting England after 3 years had been as awkward as he had expected it to be. Gilbert had masked his nervousness as best as possible or, as he liked to think, had been completely unaffected and just acted as normal as ever. Arthur hadn't shouted, he hadn't prodded him with questions he couldn't answer, he had looked completely shocked and betrayed for a moment and then had just steeled his expression and made an off handed comment about how he was expecting help and not another trouble to take care of.

It was what they always did, bicker, fight with each other, tease each other, but it didn't feel like normal anymore. Before, being around each other was as easy as breathing, now it felt weird and awkward and time did not make it better. The missions were too short and the time between them too long. Gilbert would never get used to it, he would much rather continue to work always alone.

But the orders of the leaders were absolute. That made him laugh and England shot him a weird look.

"We are here. Please try not to look completely deranged for two minutes, I rather enjoy this hotel, I don't want to get banned for life."

"That time in Iraq was a complete misunderstanding, if the hotel staff had let me explain-"

"You blew up a bomb in the middle of the parking lot, destroyed three floors and killed 13 people."

The smile Gilbert shot him then was the complete definition of "deranged".

"You said to create a distraction. Plus that religious nutjob had it coming for trying to exorcise me."

Well, Arthur couldn't argue with that. They had needed a distraction. But thankfully now they managed to pass the whole lobby and get to his hotel room with no incidents.

Gilbert looked around. Hats, coats and cane near the wall, as always. Gilbert had a slight suspicion "England" wasn't even from the country at all, but he sure made a huge effort to look like he had just come out of a 60's British movie. Except from that, the rest of the hotel room was impeccable, as if no one was residing there, the rest of his belongings most likely tucked away in the closet. It was something he had always appreciated in England, that he was as tidy and organised as himself, if they had given him a messy partner, like the oldest of the Italy boys, Gilbert would most likely have killed him in the first night.

The room wasn't very fancy. It had a bed, a small table with two chairs, a bedside table, the closet and the tv on the wall. The wood was dark and the decoration had probably been the same since the last century or so. Now it was clear why England liked it so much, at least.

As Gilbert analysed the room and reminisced, England walked to the table and sat down into one of the chairs, leaving the other to him. Gilbert furrowed his brow. Bastard, he knew he didn't like sitting with his back to the window, but he made no comment as he sat down and put his feet to the table. Payback, bitch.

"I assume you are familiar with the details of the mission?", Arthur asked, to which Gilbert nodded.

"My report wasn't so detailed but it's Russian gas pipelines in the Black Sea, yeah?. Lots of water, lots of explosions, I wonder why they gave us this job.", he retorted in a faux innocent voice, which made England scoff.

"Not just any gas pipelines, Crimean gas pipelines. The leaders weren't very pleased by the result of the last mission, the whole thing started well but ended up being resolved far too peacefully, so now they gave us a follow up mission."

"That's what they get for assigning a mission like that to that nutjob ice for brains Russia, he lacks finesse. If we do this mission just right, we can get the Russians blaming it on the Americans, the Americans blaming it on the Russians, the Ukrainians blaming it on everyone else and BAM World War 3 in our hands! This will be a work of art!" He laughed excitedly and Arthur couldn't help but smirk with him. Prussia's love for destruction was contagious, it ignited a fire in England's blood that not even the most thrilling mission by himself could compare. He never realised how much he missed it until he felt it again, this complete rush of life.

"Yes, yes. But we need to plan it very well first, where to attack and when, which officers to kill, which story to feed the governors, the survivors and the media. A work of art takes time and we have until the morning. Our plane leaves at 8."

"Who do you think you are talking to? I am no damn rookie, I am the master, this plan will be done in two hours as soon as you give me the blueprints."

Arthur glared at him. "You might not be a rookie but I am the leader of this mission. The plan will be done when I say it is. And you are going to do as I say or I'll kill you for standing in the way, you understand?"

Ah, that right there, the lack of trust. That hadn't been there before. Before it was implicit they trusted each other and knew what the other was doing without even needing to ask, but the distance and the secrecy had destroyed that and even though Gilbert knew it wasn't England's fault, it still made him furious. The other should know he had his reasons not to say anything, he should know he hadn't gotten in contact because he couldn't, he should...

"Don't you fucking underestimate me!" Rage boiled inside him and exploded. He moved in a blur, using the most of his speed, his years of practice and the element of surprise to get the upper hand. He got up, climbing on the table and toppling the chair over, passed his left hand over his right arm and the portion of his red armour that had been covering it dissolved, turning into a sword in his hand which he promptly aimed into a blow to England's head.

Only when his sword came down the other wasn't there anymore. He sliced the chair in half and jumped again, turning over, looking for a sign of his enemy, and then he was swept off his feet when the tendril of a water whip rolled itself around his legs and pulled. He fell on his back, turning over the table as well and hitting his head at the edge of it. His vision blurred for a second and the smell of blood filled his nose, but he managed to roll to the side just as another whip came down on his direction and broke a portion of the table off. He couldn't go far though as the other whip tightened against his legs and pulled him back.

"You are an impulsive brat that doesn't listen to what anyone says and does whatever the fuck you want, which part of that is me underestimating you!? It's the bloody truth!"

The whip came down again and Gilbert barely avoided it this time, then swung his arm and cut the whip holding his legs in half with his sword. Another portion of his armour liquefied and joined into his sword that changed and turned into a spear.

"And you are a fucking coward second rate agent, that has nothing to back up their bark. Leader my ass! You don't serve to wipe my boots!"

He jumped to his feet, barely avoiding another swing of the whip that caught him in the ribs, thankfully still protected by the armour, and propelled forward. England jumped to the side, protecting his torso, but Gilbert wasn't aiming there. He moved his aim in the last second and perforated England's shoulder with the spear, shoving him back and pinning his arm against the wall, inutilising one of the whips. England roared and the whip in his hand changed into a blade, better fit for close contact battle.

"Die already, you fucking asshole! You should have been dead years ago!"

Gilbert couldn't dodge fast enough, still on the momentum. The blade cut his face as it passed before sinking into his back, breaking through his armour. It hurt, but Gilbert had never minded getting hurt, pain and blood only ever seemed to drive him further.

"You sure would love that, wouldn't you?! You have been holding that in all this time right?! Just fucking say what you want already!"

"I hate you! I am gonna send you back to that grave you never should have crawled out of!"

"Right fucking back at you!"

Gilbert laughed and then grabbed England's wrist with his hands, pushing it back and pinning it against the wall as well. Oh, he knew that couldn't really stop him, but that wasn't really the point. The point was power, the point was the fight in itself, the point was communication. They had always been better at solving things physically rather than with words. The words meant nothing, they were background noise. This was their conversation, their fights, their silly arguments, their flirting, all their words that could never be said. They were always at their best surrounded by weapons and the smell of blood, erratic breaths and wounds. This was what Gilbert had been missing. For the first time since he had come back, it didn't feel awkward with England.

They weren't done yet, not even slightly, but for the first time Gilbert thought things just might tilt back to their right places. Before England could attack him in some other way, before they continued, he wanted to transmit that. So he crossed the rest of the distance between them and kissed him.

It was rough and hungry and it sent a spark down Gilbert's spine when he was met, not with resistance or resignation, but with the same roughness and hunger, teeth cackling and cutting flesh. Until England bit his lower lip hard, drawing blood, in a way that was clearly meant to end the kiss and not entice it, so Gilbert pulled his head back with a yelp.

England's lips were painted with his blood and when the other drew his tongue out and licked, Gilbert had to use all his self-restraint not to throw himself at the other again.

"Disgusting", England growled. "Don't you ever fucking dare kiss me with that filthy mouth of yours again"

"Says the one that tastes like 50 shades of fucking tea. I don't even want to kiss you again."

He was going to say more but suddenly something grabbed his neck from behind.

He was lifted from the ground gagging and sputtering, hands clawing at his throat to try and pull the thing away but his fingers only slipped on the water. His body was incased in a torrent of water and he couldn't move anymore, though the tendril around his neck let out just enough to allow him to breath.

England was looking up at him, hand raised and a smirk at the corner of his mouth. That flamed Gilbert's anger again.

"Bastard! Where the fuck did all this water come from?!"

"I knew you were coming so I took the liberty of filling the tub before going to meet you, just in case you decided to cause any trouble."

"You fucker! That's cheating!"

"There are no rules in war, weren't you that were always repeating that? You think you are so high and mighty because I can't control the water in your blood like i do to other people, but you forget most of your body aside from that is made of water: your sweat, your urine, the interior of your cells. Even disregarding that, there is always water in the air. My power is endless. I just happened to choose a less subtle way to use it. I win."

Gilbert snorted. "Oh yeah? Aren't you forgetting a very important detail?" He waited, but as the other only looked puzzled, he laughed and continued. "My blood, what did you do to it?"

That got a reaction out of England, his face going pale, and Gilbert laughed harder. "That's right, you swallowed it, didn't you? You have my blood in your stomach right now, I could have teared you from inside out ages ago if wanted to. So I win."

Arthur looked like he wanted to retort, but at that moment a frantic knock sounded at the door together with a worried voice. All their trouble hadn't gone unnoticed, as it seemed. Fancy decorations, awful sound isolation, Gilbert was hating this place more and more.

He and England stared at each other for a moment and then the other begrudgingly put him down and let him go and Gilbert absorbed back the spear that was still impaling his arm. England made a move to the door but Gilbert beat him to it. With a wave, the blood in his forehead turned into a small knife in his hand and as soon as he opened the door, he sliced the clerk's throat with it. He was beyond irritated at this point, and if he couldn't kill England, then he would kill someone.

The clerk fell to the floor, hands clutching at his throat that was doing an awful gurgling noise. Gilbert picked him up and dragged him to the bathtub before he could leave blood trails all over the hall and their floor. Apparently, England had put the water back after letting him go because it overflowed and seeped from the sides when he deposited the body inside, before starting to turn pink from the blood.

The other, attracted by the weird behaviour, came into the bathroom and looked over his shoulder, letting out a disgusted noise at what he saw.

"Really? Didn't I tell you not to do anything deranged? What was that for!?"

"You pissed me off and he had bad timing. Don't worry, let's clean everything and get rid of him and if anyone asks he never appeared to our room, it's not like they can prove otherwise."

England looked like he wanted to say a lot of things about that, but he just sighed.

"There's a permanent residence of cleaners from the Organisation on the upper floor. Let's call them and clean this mess and get to work already."

Gilbert was impressed. So it wasn't just because of the awful decoration that England had chosen this hotel. That was shocking.

He stared at the other's back as he went to the bedside table and picked up the phone to call the cleaners, trying to sense any change in his behaviour, in their situation, but there was nothing. Apparently, even after all that, they were back to mutual resentment, awkwardness and pretending. Just thinking about it made Gilbert wish another clerk would come by so he could kill them as well. Violence was always the best solution to everything, specially stupid feelings he didn't know what were or how to deal with. He resigned to kicking one of the toppled over chairs.

Surprisingly, that didn't make him feel even slightly better.

Tonight, they would plan out their mission and tomorrow they would carry it out. Gilbert could practically predict what would happen then: skies painted red from explosions, fire, death, destruction, governments in disarray, pointing fingers left and right, people clamming for the kind of vengeance that could only be quenched with blood. This time petty agreements wouldn't cut it, this time there would be war, and the plan of the Organisation would be one step closer to completing. One simple mission and they would make an enormous difference, they would change the whole world

For him, there was no difference, it would be mission accomplished and back to the headquarters. No celebration with England, no escaping the watch of the Organisation for some self proclaimed much needed vacation. Just turning their backs and walking away, and only seeing each other again god knows when. Perhaps some missions really were impossible even for them.

Disgusted with himself, Gilbert shook his head and squared his shoulders. Whatever, as if he cared about what that bastard thought about him or didn't think. He didn't need anyone, never had, never would. It didn't matter. All that mattered was his work, his mission and now, his revenge. He had no time to worry about solving things with old partners, that wasn't even a worry, that didn't bother him at all. This was just the new way things were, there was no turning back time, no fixing, it was just how it was and so he would just keep going as he always did. His survival was all that mattered and to survive one must learn to always adapt and make the best use of every situation. No looking back and whining or yearning.

Except, even as he said that, there was always a small voice in the back of his heart that would come out every time he looked at England and whisper at his ear "What if...?"

Little did he know, the other had that same voice in his heart, the same eyes that followed him when he wasn't looking, the same wish for a time that wouldn't go back. And if he did know?

It probably wouldn't make a difference anyway.