A/N: ...So I've started another Hetalia songfic! This is actually a 1P!/2P! crossover, based on the song "Get Away With Murder." As usual, French translations are provided at the end. I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think!

Get Away With Murder

I'm gonna break your heart and get away with murder
You should've known from the start that it wouldn't last forever

I can't control myself, I feel like someone else
I'm gonna break your heart and get away with murder

"Get Away With Murder"- cover by The Difference

Part 1

Muffled voices awoke the British Nation from his deep slumber. Blinking wearily, his head groggy from sleep- or lack thereof, for it had been another restless night, Arthur Kirkland slowly sat up in his bed. He yawned, stretched, and stared blankly at the wall for a few seconds until his senses fully came back to working order- a typical morning routine for the green-eyed man.

But on this particular sunny, Sunday morning, something felt…off.

It was one of those feelings that the Brit got when something bad was about to happen- a vague pull in the pit of his stomach that set the rest of his body on edge. Rarely did this feeling grace the Nation's presence; thankfully, because when it did, Arthur knew that he needed to be on high alert for any ill-favoring events in the near future. And occur they would; no matter what lengths he took to stop whatever these events may be, the forces of the universe were just too strong for one tiny Nation to go against.

There were those voices again…soft, hushed utterances reached the Englishman's ears through the crack under his bedroom door. Slowly, cautiously, he threw the heavy covers off and swung his legs off the bed. Taking a moment to put on his slippers, he made his way out the door; if he were to face some great evil today, he might as well be comfortable doing so. The Brit crept down the short hallway from his room towards the kitchen, where the source of the noise was coming from.

"Alfred, sit properly in your chair, s'il vout plait," a lilting, French-accented voice said, the tone indicating that this phrase has been uttered many times before. Arthur smiled automatically at the sound, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling with tired happiness. Even after months of waking up to these now-familiar sounds, he had yet to get used to them.

The Englishman walked into the kitchen just as a younger, higher-pitched voice began its usual whining response.

"I don't wanna!" the small boy said, unaware of Arthur's presence as the elder man quietly walked up behind him. The young boy's twin, however, instantly noticed the Brit, who put a finger to his smirking lips and winked.

"Alfred, listen to your Papa."

The whining boy nearly fell out of his chair as the elder man spoke loudly in his ear.

"Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!" the young blonde exclaimed, his small, pouted lips quivering despite his attempt to appear unfazed. The elder Brit patted him on the shoulder comfortingly and chuckled.

"I was only joking, Alfred, I apologize for startling you," he stated, though the twinkle in his eyes said otherwise. Alfred's twin noticed this and tried his best to hide his laughter.

"Mon cher, try not to terrorize the children, especially so early in the morning…Oui?" The French-accented voice was back, and Arthur glanced up from his son to the man it belonged to.

"Yes, yes," he replied offhandedly, walking over to the other man and planting a soft kiss on his slightly-stubbled cheek. The Frenchman returned the gesture by swiftly grasping the Brit around the waist and dipping him, supporting his back as he planted a kiss on his lips, which were open slightly in surprise.

"Eeeew!" the twin boys said in unison, the louder of the two making an over-exaggerated face of disgust. The Englishman lightly batted his partner's face away and righted himself, pointedly straightening out his shirt. He glared, not a fan of these sudden displays of affection. The long-haired blonde merely winked one of his deep-blue eyes. Arthur huffed and glanced over at his children.

Alfred and Matthew gazed up at him, their faces wearing un-identical expressions of disgust and happiness, respectively. England smiled at them, and both of them beamed back. Suddenly, the quieter of the two boys crinkled his eyebrows together.

"Daddy, why do you have spots on your face?" he asked, violet eyes wide, tone quizzical.

"Hmm?" Arthur questioned, frowning and touching his face. "Spots? What do you mean, Matthew?"

"Looks like dirt," the other twin commented, his eyebrows coming together in thought. The Englishman deftly ran his fingers across his face, but felt nothing out of the ordinary.

"Turn towards me," the Frenchman commanded, wiggling his fingers to bring the Brit's attention back to him. His slightly-parted lips angled downwards as he stared at his partner's face. There was indeed a dusting of light brown spots across Arthur's cheekbones that had not been there the day before.

"It looks like freckles…," France commented, running his fingertips lightly over the spots. England raised one expressive eyebrow.

"But I don't have freckles," he said. The Frenchman merely shrugged. Arthur briskly walked to the bathroom near the kitchen and looked intently in the mirror. Small, brown spots mysteriously sat under his emerald-green eyes. They did appear to be freckles, but England knew that he never developed them as a child or young adult, no matter how much time he spent outside in the sun. He grabbed a nearby washcloth, wet it with soap and water, and furiously scrubbed at his face to no avail; the spots refused to leave their newly-claimed spot on his cheeks.

"That's odd," he said to himself, once again gazing at his light-green-eyed reflection. Wait- light green? The last time the Brit checked, his eyes had most definitely been a deep shade of forest green. England gazed at himself for another minute before shaking his head and going back towards the kitchen.

His eyes were simply playing tricks on him; that must be it. The spots were probably a reaction to something; he just needed to be more aware of what he put near his face from now on. Even though it was unheard of for a Nation to develop an allergy to anything, the thought was enough to calm the Brit for the time being.

"Well, I'm not sure what it is, but it's probably nothing serious," Arthur announced, walking back into the kitchen. He ran a comforting hand over Matthew's hair, for the boy still wore a slightly-distressed expression on his kind face.

"See, your father is fine," France said, gently kissing the top of the twin's foreheads. Alfred made a disgusted noise and immediately wiped away the invisible kiss, while Matthew beamed at his Papa. The Frenchman exchanged a smile with the Englishman and then turned back to the stove, where the irresistible smell of food was being emitted with great enthusiasm.

England nodded to himself; he was fine. He ruffled Alfred's hair, cracked a wry smile, and sat down in-between the twins. "Now, let's have some breakfast; I'm so hungry, even that Frenchie's cooking smells good today!"

The kids laughed, the Frenchman stuck his tongue out, and all was normal once again.

At least for the rest of the morning.

Soon, the sun lifted higher into the sky and it became mid-afternoon. The twins were outside playing in the front yard, while Arthur was lying on the couch with his arm over his eyes to block out the bright light streaming in through the window. Less than two hours after the family finished breakfast, the Englishman started to develop a headache. It began as a dull throbbing in the front of his skull that quickly developed into a sharp pain every time he made a sudden movement.

Francis came around the couch to England's side, a damp washcloth in his hands. He glanced out the window overlooking the front yard, checking to see if the young boys were alright. Assured that the high-pitched screams were noises of enjoyment, not agony, the Frenchman turned his attention back to his partner. He gently placed the washcloth over the ailing Brit's forehead and sat down on the couch at his feet.

"I don't know why I feel so ill," England moaned, gingerly opening one eye a crack to glance at France. "As far as I'm aware, nothing in my country is going wrong, and that's the only reason we Nations get sick…"

The long-haired blonde smiled calmly and placed a hand on the other blonde's knee.

"As you said earlier, mon amour, it's probably nothing serious," he said comfortingly. "Sometimes I feel a little out of it, but it always goes away after a few days."

"Yes, but you've never had strange freckles appear on your perfect face," the Brit snapped. The Frenchman smirked.

"Merci pour le compliment," he said, winking, and Arthur gave his side a feeble kick. Francis laughed lightly, but to his dismay, England merely sighed.

"I just…something doesn't feel right."

"You are sick, Angleterre, of course you feel bad," France responded, trying to calm his partner's anxiety. The Brit shook his head and then winced as another stab of pain pierced throughout his skull. To his dismay, it actually felt like the pain was expanding downwards to reach the back of his eyes.

"It's not merely feeling ill," the Englishman tried to elaborate as France kindly pushed a wayward golden lock out of his face. "I woke up with this bad feeling of…foreboding, I suppose I would call it. I know that sounds dramatic, but it's that bad feeling I randomly get sometimes, do you remember? I've told you about it another time, right before…" He bit his lip and glanced down at his lap, mentally pushing away the memory of the two Nations last less-than-perfect encounter. "I'm worried that something might happen to…us…"

"Shh, mon lapin," France soothed, standing and moving once again to his partner's side. He placed a warm hand on Arthur's distressed face, making the Brit close his eyes and instinctively learn towards the heat. "You are simply feeling stressed; it will all get better soon. I promise you that."

England opened his eyes and looked up into the face of the man whom he absolutely adored. He smiled, and the Frenchman's soft lips curved upwards as well. Suddenly, the long-haired blonde furrowed his brow; his lips reversed their smile.

"What?" the Brit questioned, the feeling of unease coming back with a renewed vigor. Something was happening. Something very bad was amiss. Something was…Something was making his eyes hurt like hell.

"Non, open your eyes," France commanded as the Englishman suddenly squeezed his eyes shut tightly in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain. Gingerly, Arthur cracked his right eye open. The pain was subsiding, albeit slowly.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the Frenchman. England opened his mouth to speak, but France pressed a finger to his lips and leaned in closer. The Brit's other eyelids cracked apart, and France blinked and shook his head slightly.

"Your eyes…," he said softly, staring intently into Arthur's face. "They're…"

"They're what?!" England was getting very concerned. From his end, there was nothing wrong with his vision; Francis was perfectly clear, despite how much into England's personal space he got. Still, the Frenchman looked taken aback.

"They're…blue."

England stared at France as if he was insane.

"Excuse me?" He knew for a fact that his eyes had and would always be a deep forest green. Even if the lighting fell oddly on his face, there was no way it would make his eyes appear the slightest bit blue.

"Wait, let me get a mirror." The Frenchman hurriedly ran towards the bedroom as, ever-so-slowly, Arthur propped himself up on his elbows.

What the hell is happening to me? He thought, suppressing a shiver. A few seconds later, the Frenchman returned with a hand mirror and offered it to the Brit, who gingerly took it and raised it up to his face. Sure enough, his once-emerald eyes were now a light, sky-colored blue. England's hands began to shake, and France quickly took the mirror back before it was accidentally dropped on the floor.

"Francis…something is very, very wrong," Arthur said, trying his best to keep his tone level and calm. For some strange reason, he was beginning to feel a tug in the back of his mind, as if there was something that he read long ago that might help him make sense of what was happening. Glancing at the large bookshelf covering the entire back wall of the living room, the Brit desperately wracked his brain for the title of the book he needed. Suddenly, with a jolt, he remembered exactly where it was.

"Get the book in the top right corner of that bookshelf," he commanded to the Frenchman, pointing to the back wall. France raised an eyebrow and glanced behind him.

"Angleterre, I'm not sure if reading is the best thing for you to be doing right now-"

"Just do it, you stupid Frog!"

Francis was taken aback by the Brit's barking tone. Arthur's occasional commands were nothing new, but usually the short-haired blonde at least had a smile on his face to show that he was joking around. Now, his expression was completely serious; it scared the Frenchman more than he would like to admit. Nonetheless, he did as his lover said and retrieved the book from the top shelf- an old, large, mystical-looking volume covered in swirling letters and symbols. As soon as it was in his hands, England began frantically flipping page after page, looking for one specific section.

"Found it!" he exclaimed, jamming his pointer finger onto a chapter title that read: Counterparts From Another World. As he read the first paragraph, the Brit's face began to pale; his triumphant smile fell into an expression of poorly disguised horror, which instantly sent France's heartbeat into a worried flutter.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, mon amour?" he questioned. England turned his disturbingly blue eyes upon him, slowly closing the book and setting it down on the table.

"Second Players," he responded dully, his gaze unwavering.

s'il vout plait= please

mon cher= my dear

mon amour= my love

merci pour le compliment= thank you for the compliment

Angleterre= England

mon lapin= my rabbit

Qu'est-ce que c'est?=What is it?