A/N: I know, I know, I shouldn't be starting another story, but this is just a short one, maybe only three chapters and I had writers' block and this was the only way to break through it. So, another Bad Touch Trio-centric story, I just couldn't handle it, I love those three! This is a bit more sad and serious, so I do hope you like it as much as my more humorous stories.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, if I did, I would own the Bad Touch Trio and I don't, so instead I am forced to write fanfiction and read Yaoi doujinshi

Song of the Chapter: Who Says by Selena Gomez (yeah it's an old song, but this is what I listen to so don't judge)


Chapter 1

"Angleterre! It's no use, get away now!" France yelled out.

The stubborn Brit still got up, "No way France! We can do this, I'll protect you, as long as I can stand we still have a chance! A weakling such as yourself would never understand!" he yelled, aiming his gun, his hands wobbled but he managed to fire some more shots, taking out more soldiers with every bullet.

France tried to get up as well, to join his British friend, but he couldn't, he was in too much pain. Paris, his capital was burning, and he was burning along with it.

A searing pain throbbed all over his body, every citizen that perished, every soldier that died sent another wave of pain up his spine.

As another one of his historic buildings exploded, he let out a cry of absolute pain, he staggered to the ground, clutching his chest, his heart felt as if it were being wrenched out with a knife. As if he was slowly being killed.

As a whole school nearby crumbled he gasped for air, dust flew into his throat, his rough esophagus being clogged even more. Another bomb destroyed a whole hospital and France let out a huge scream.

England continued to fight on, even though hearing the agonized cries of his ally made him wince and want to run over, he knew that if he wanted to save France, then he had to defeat as many soldiers as he could.

"Bastards! I'll show you what happens when you mess with a former pirate!" he yelled, shooting out another half a dozen bullets before he reached to reload. But his pocket was bare, he had no more ammo.

"Bloody hell," he growled and instead gripped the gun like a club.

Soldiers ran at him, yelling battle cries in German, but even though blood stained his clothes and he was covered in injuries, England was still a nation, and nations didn't lose so easily.

"Don't you dare, hurt my ally!" he yelled, bringing down the gun and knocking out one soldier after the other.

Then the soldiers started to notice the blonde haired man sitting in the middle of the battlefield, letting out cries of pain and curling up into a foetal position. The blonde haired man with luscious hair tied back with a pink ribbon, a uniform covered in blood, filled with bullet holes, but still, the man inside it was alive. The man inside it must've been the nation they were looking for.

"That's him! That's the man we're supposed to capture! Grab him and our mission will be complete!" one tall soldier ordered in German, he pointed at France's weak form on the ground.

England might not have understood their language, but he knew what they meant.

"NO! Get away you bastards!" he yelled, jumping protectively in front of France.

He slammed the butt of his gun into someone's head and then whirled around to kick another one away.

"What about him sir?" one soldier gestured to England.

"Just leave him, he is not of this country, he is Britain, we will capture him another time." the tall soldier replied.

England's gun finally snapped. He threw it away from him and then sent out a punch at someone's face. He whirled around to face the soldiers when he felt a piercing pain in the back of his knee, he collapsed to the ground.

"No! Don't you dare touch him!" England yelled, he leaped with his uninjured leg, closer to France.

He wrapped his arms around him protectively, the usually flamboyant man writhing in pain in his arms.

"Angleterre, I didn't know you cared!" he chuckled weakly.

"Shut up bloody frog! I-I d-don't c-care!" (A/N: What a lie Iggy!)

France was about to reply when the soldiers surrounded them, hands grabbing at their uniforms and hair.

England's grip around his friend tightened and he gasped as a knife was plunged into his side. "Get away, I'm not leaving him!" he screamed as they pried the two nations apart.

"Angleterre! Just run! I'll be alright," France said, he nodded at England sadly.

"No! Damn frog! NO!" England was thrown onto the ground a few metres away. He tried to get up but a boot slammed into his back and he cried out in pain.

He watched in despair as a rough sack was thrown over France's head and his hands restrained by thick rope.

The tall soldier threw the nation over his shoulder, England couldn't see his friend fighting, or moving at all.

"Bastards! Bastards I'll kill you all! Let him go!" England screamed, the soldier pressed the heel of his boot right into England's spine and he let out a scream of agony before his world went black.