What's your name? –Jesse McCarty

Red eyes settled down on familiar face as he walked into a buzzing coffee shop. He could see the long, silky curl up over the large line of people and he simultaneously started to try to push through towards it.

Gilbert Beilsmicht was not a shy person. In fact, many of his friends would call him the exact opposite; a bouncing, loud, energetic teen with far too much time on his hands to be safe. He was often seen at parties, asking multiple people out (girls and guys, though, he would deny the latter), so when he saw those beautiful purple eyes and that silky blonde hair- He had to know that guy.

But one thing hindered his quest, one obstacle in his way.

The Prussian (not German.) didn't know his name.

Every time he saw the small blonde he would either be ambushed by a group of his friends or his unknown crush would leave seconds after, seeming to almost disappear in any large crowd. He didn't even know his future soul-mate's name (this of course had been predestined).

Gilbert would catch him this time though; the line was extremely long like it normally was on Saturday mornings at Tim Horton's (the most likely place to see the blonde; his crush seemed to live there almost) and he had to. It wasn't an option.

" 'cuse me- Comin' through here! Get outta my way!" he hissed to the now-scowling Canadians, ducking under and weaving through, getting closer and closer to that bobbing curl.

"Hey! You!" the Prussian finally called out, seeing the boy up at the counter, fishing out a few coins for his breakfast (Poutine and a double double, not that Gilbert was stalking him).

He finally caught his break as the Canadian looked over at him, holding his bag of food and disposable cup. The purple eyes looked even better when he was reflected in them. "Y-yes?" and he sounded just like Gilbert knew he would. He had a knack for knowing these things.

Walking up quickly, Gilbert grinned widely, about to ask his name when another loud voice boomed from the door.

"Matt! Come on! We're gonna be late for the game!"

Matt.

It fit him, Gilbert paused for a second, contemplating.

But to his dismay when he came out of his thoughts, the straw-berry blonde was no longer in front of him and he turned, just in time to see the door open and the silky curl hurry out the door.

Shit.

Garbage – Chairlift

America felt like shit. Or rather to put it more appropriately; like garbage.

He curled up tighter in his bed, eyes closed as a cool, damp washcloth rested on his sweaty forehead. This wasn't normal; wasn't Alfred F. Jones the hero. Heroes didn't get sick (and his economy was not in a recession thank you).

So why did he feel like his insides were trying to escape?

Thinking about it, he supposed he never really felt right. His stomach would always give the usual protests and by now he knew to keep a pink bottle of pepto bismol with him at all times and that normally was enough.

But this was unbearable.

Up again in two seconds, Alfred made a mad dash to his bathroom, kneeling in front of the porcelain bowl and dry heaving again (he'd stopped trying to eat a day ago, he hadn't been able to keep anything down.)

Only after he gave a finally gag did he feel a light hand on his back, rubbing circles around soothingly. Once glance up confirmed his suspicions. "M-Mattie…" he said hoarsely, throat raw from the acid in his stomach.

"You really are getting bad, eh?" the Canadian spoke lightly, concern lace in his soft voice. "What's wrong?"

Alfred shook his head and sat back as his eyes closed. "I dunno…" he sighed, coughing and covering his mouth again with a hand. "M-My stomach…"

The Canadian lifted up a hand, touching his brother's forehead softly to check his temperature. "You don't have a fever… and there isn't a recession," Matthew frowned, studying Alfred carefully. The American looked positively green, a shade he previously thought only possible on vegetation. "Maybe… you should cut back on all the burgers..?"

Shaking his head quickly, Alfred gave a slight glare to Matthew. "I ain't goin' on a-" he stopped midsentence, quickly gripping the rim of the toilet again and heaving into it. After a few more minutes of dry gags, he managed to pull back, panting and looking worse than before.

"Alfred… Please. Have you seen your cities lately…? It's all fast food- everything is so unhealthy-" Matthew rubbed his shoulder lightly. "Not to mention the amount of garbage you just… dump."

The American frowned, trying to quell his aching stomach. "But… Burgers Matt…" he gagged again, shaking his head. "A-Alright… Alright- maybe… I'll go eat a salad…"

We Could Be The Same – maNga

"So you gonna tell me your name yet kid?" the Ottoman circles the smaller nation, his predatory gaze roaming over the olive skin and rich brown hair. "Callin' you Greece is fun and all, but I think we're past formalities and shit…"

Greece's eyes narrow as he watches the Empire stop in front of him and he shakes his head. "You know our leaders…-" he started, only to be cut off by a rough hand pulling his jaw up, chapped lips descending on his own. He hears a low growl resonate from the other man's throat.

"Just one night… C'mon kid… I know you feel it too," Sadiq opens his eyes, still holding the boy's jaw and staring into the green eyes intently. "Stop bein' a spoiled brat…"

Frowning, Heracles stares back and reaches up to grab the Ottoman's shirt. "Stupid…" he mutters, stretching up on his toes again.

"It's Heracles…"

Chasing Hope

Arthur never stopped running.

Those slender, tiny legs seemed to move in a blur through the storm and even as I spotted a few specs of bright light following him, so too could I see the shining tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

I knew it was probably my own fault, I had been late to a… tea party, had he called it? My new boss finding his own voice so attractive and I just had to listen to him until he had other obligations calling him away and freeing me to meet the little boy. There was a possibility that it was some other's fault though, a fresh blossoming bruise I could just barely make out on his plump cheek no doubt caused from one of his elder brothers or some Viking brute from the north.

But regardless, I stayed behind. After all he was running away from me and from my vantage point at the edge of the forest I couldn't decide whether to chase after him or to let him… Be alone. Something in me told me that I couldn't always watch after him, especially if he kept running. He ran away from trouble, from problems, from anything that he found frightening and I can't always save him.

I've been there for every scrapped knee.

For every tear he's shed (even the ones I caused).

I've been there to comfort him since I found him in a bright little meadow, playing with a dozen or so white rabbits. But something is holding me back now, something I cannot quite put my finger on. I would chase after him in a heartbeat if I could until time itself sopped.

But… that is not our way.

As Rome protected me, I left, I ran. Whatever forces raised Rome, he too surely ran from them. It is not up to us, who we choose to stay with and run from. Humans dictate everything we do, from who we love, to who we hate.

I heard a crash of thunder and snapped back into focus, the little boy now just a spot on the horizon.

How long? I feel my legs moving before I realize I'm running, sprinting. How long until it happens to us?

I don't care. Arthur will keep running until he can't anymore.

And I will run after him.

What are you waiting for?

What are you waiting for?

Just do it!

If not now, when?

Come on Francis… man up!

"Why Angleterre, you look absolutely divine today. Good enough to eat even," the Frenchman finally spoke, approaching Arthur and smiling lazily, his tone laced with mistaken sarcasm. He inwardly cursed. Merde.

The Brit turned, large eyebrows angrily pressing together as his eyes narrowed. A half-full glass of wine held carefully between his fingers swirled in a smooth motion. "Get away from me you bloody frog."

Just tell him. Don't make a snide remark. Don't…

Francis smiled again, grinning slightly. "Oh, but you know you like it mon petit lapin-"

The red wine immediately found itself on the front of Francis' pristine white dress shirt and Arthur snorted, setting it aside on a tray as a waiter passed between them. "You're not going to ruin this day for me France. Just leave, you're not wanted here."

No! Wait- I have to tell you-

The Frenchman watched as Arthur turned, the grin plastered on his face quickly fading. It was only there to hide his fear anyway. His dark blue eyes gleamed as they followed the Briton's back, watching, staring as Arthur's hand was claimed by a tall, spectacled blonde with a brilliant smile. He felt his walls crashing down around him. Elegant tuxes, roses lining every isle, rows and rows of chairs filled with people who were chattering away like nothing was wrong. Happiness even, alluded the Frenchman.

And as a familiar tune started (one that Francis swore stopped his heart completely, just like it was taken right out of him), he turned, and walked stiff legged out of the chapel.

You really look amazing Arthur

I'm glad you're finally happy

I'm sorry for everything. Just… everything

I love you

…

I love you