So this... was totally meant to only be a two-parter but as usual with me there was some copious word-vomiting and now it's going to be a three-parter because this second part alone is twenty pages of Size 8 Verdana on MS Word. o.O

SO YEAH, I'm going to drag this out for a bit longer. You're welcome. :D Actually, this has been surprisingly popular so I would just like to say thank you to all who read/reviewed the first chapter! I'm really happy that everyone likes this story so far!

In this part: The History of Great Britain (and, to some extent, the world) Since 1620 According to Alfred F. Jones. Now you know you can't pass up a chance to see that. ;3

Shatter

[2/3]

Stretch twist burn flex taste touch move – everything moving, nothing regimental, nothing forbidden. Nothing real, either, but hardly mattering, they were close, so so so close and all entangled with their arms around another, rocking, shuddering, hips swaying in synchronisation, fingers pressing and slipping on sweat-slicked skin, all mere perception and perfect and private.

"This is better," America whispered with his mouth against England's neck, sturdy bedframe and pliable mattress and soft sheets underneath them the way it was supposed to be. "This is much better. Stay calm – just stay calm and it'll be easier for me. You've been so good these last few times. You're doing so well, baby."

England nodded, his eyes wide open and staring right past America's shoulder at the dresser. There were things on that dresser, items that they didn't really own but which gleamed secretly with the sacred marks of ownership nonetheless. He could see the rustle of the sheets in the mirror, too, and the careless fall of the thick curtains pulled shut and solidly draped like a glacier. There was a painting of a ship on the wall, hanging a little crooked. How irksome.

(Almost real.)

America kissed his collarbone, then his neck, then his jaw, solid and heavy when England tried to arch under him; his laugh echoed on England's skin, whispering that his nails tickled, giggling as he begged him not to leave marks.

"Think of the scandal you'll cause," he breathed, taking England's elbows and moving his arms up to cling on around his neck. "Leaving scratch marks down my back... It's not like I can erase them down here, right?"

"Quiet or I'll bite you, too."

"Bite me and I won't bleed outta sheer spite."

"Heh." Smirking, England closed his eyes, pressing himself closer. America started to kiss his neck again and he tipped his head back against the pillow. "God, America...! Y-you're amazing..."

"Mm." America slipped his palms up under England's shoulder blades, cradling him. "I'm so glad you think so. You're about the only person I got left to impress, Arthur." He pulled him upwards and kissed him.

England tightened his arms around America's neck, enjoying the simple, carnal feel of him; the pounding of their blood matching the pulse of their lovemaking, raw and reduced down to sightless touch, to oppressive scent, to warmth and friction and pleasure (how it should be and how it never was). The room was filled with the sound of sex, soft and sultry but not silent – and the smell of it, too, fabricated musk on stale, still air. It was perfect, all perfect—and fake and built with cobweb memory, the barest breaths of old grimy stinking sex between the cracks, and he ached with the fullness of it, the crushing closeness as his body sang and of course it wasn't real but it was better.

"I love you," England whispered as they parted. "Sshhh." He gave an ironic smile. "Don't tell anyone."

"I love you too." America too smiled around the four-word ransom note. "And now we're even."

When it was over, America rolled them both over and wrapped his arms around England from behind, nestling against him so that they fitted like silver spoons. England stretched in America's arms before cuddling close again, closing his eyes. It was warm and comfortable and quiet – the room their confidant, entrusted to keeping their secret.

"I love this part," England confided gently. "I like the sex where we can touch and kiss and cry 'God!' for each other but this... this is just wonderful. I love curling up with you afterwards, Alfred, and falling asleep in your arms."

"Mmm." America nuzzled at the back of his neck. "When I was a kid, we used to do this. Other way around, of course."

"And without the sex, I should hope."

"Yeah. That too."

"Do you mind if I... say something, however?"

"Sure."

"It does feel like we've been down here an awfully long time." England frowned worriedly. "I do hope that we're not lying unresponsively on the bed up there."

America laughed.

"Nah," he promised. "We're still goin' at it, actually. Time perception, you see. I've been figuring out how to screw with it. We can stay down here for what feels like hours and hours but in reality it's only been about ten minutes." He grinned against England's shoulder. "Pretty cool, huh?"

England glanced back at him as best he could.

"Is that safe?" he asked.

"Well, sure! I'm not actually lengthening time at all, just our perception of it. I'm still working on it, of course. Right now I can get a couple of hours outta a few minutes. I'm trying to see if I can get it up to days – then weeks, of course, and then... hell, who knows? Maybe whole years!"

England sighed at him.

"I doubt that's possible," he said, turning away again.

"Of course it is," America replied confidently. "I just need to keep working on it, that's all. You'll see, I'll get there. How are we supposed to live our awesome American Dream if we can't even spend Christmas here, huh?" He squeezed England excitedly. "Which, by the way, is going to be the best Christmas you've ever had."

"You don't have much to beat, you know. Not to my knowledge, anyway."

"Even so! We'll have a huge tree with lights and baubles and tinsel and a fairy on the top because you love fairies—"

"Do I?"

"Shush, lemme finish. There'll be presents all wrapped up in bright paper and bows; oh, and music, of course! Bing Crosby, Doris Day, Nat King Cole, all the classics... We'll watch all the Christmas Specials on TV, too, and then we'll have Christmas dinner, turkey and ham and gravy and stuffing and potatoes and carrots and... and, well, I guess I'll give that more thought nearer the time! Oh, and don't forget, of course, that we totally have to go to church on Christmas morning to thank Jesus for sending Santa with all our presents! Obviously it'll be a White Christmas – just like Bing Crosby says! – so we'll go crunch-crunch-crunch all the way to church in hiking boots and thick coats and matching scarves that you hand-knitted by the fireside—"

"I don't know how to knit."

"Well, you'll learn. Re-learn, even."

"Is there even a church in this charming neighbourhood?"

"Huh. I don't remember now. Well, if there isn't, I'll just put one in!"

England smiled.

"It all sounds perfect, Alfred," he said. "Perfectly wholesome."

"What's that supposed to mean, huh?"

"Nothing." England laughed. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Good!" America exhaled against the back of England's neck. "...'Course, it sounds perfect because it's not... well, not real. But!" He laughed again, squirming like an excited child. "I figure to Hell with reality! Who needs it when you're this fucking happy?"


"Brought you a drink, babe."

England straightened up, wiping his forehead with the back of his mud-streaked hand as he turned towards America – who was standing beaming before him holding two glasses of lemonade, ice cubes jingling like bells. It was a warm, bright afternoon with the sun blazing down generously on the small, beautiful garden of America's design and England's care, the entire yard seeming to pop with splashes of brilliant colour. The air was thick and heady with the clashing perfume of roses and sweetpeas and tulips and poppies and pansies, sweet like old blood and sensuously real. England smiled and put down his clippers on the cobbled pathway, pushing his sleeves back up to his elbows again before reaching instead for the glass offered out to him.

"Thank you," he said, taking a grateful sip; sharp and cold and true as it sparked in his throat like fireworks. "I really needed this."

"Me too," Alfred replied cheerfully. "Just watching you was making me thirsty. Look at you, all togged up in that damn sweater vest and tie." He clinked his own glass against England's and chugged half of it in one gulp. "Jeez, that's better! Hot as balls today, ain't it?"

"You're the one controlling the weather, surely?" England remarked dryly.

"Well, yeah." America shrugged and laughed. "You want rain to make you feel more at home?"

"Oh, no, I'm absolutely fine. I like the sun every now and then, believe it or not."

"Really?" America looked up at the perfectly clear sky, high and cornflower-blue. "Being an island, I thought you were an aquatic kinda fella, to be honest. You know, webbed toes and stuff?"

England snorted over his glass.

"That's Francis," he said coolly. "You know, the disgusting slimy French frog."

"Ah. Yeah, that's right. You know what's kinda funny, Artie?"

"What?"

"You've lost so much of your memory, you don't even remember half the things you like, you can't even recall how to do some of the things that used to be second nature to you – and yet you've never forgotten that, to you, Francis is a disgusting slimy French frog."

"Well," England reasoned, "that's not so much a specific memory as it is a fact. I must simply have reformed the opinion upon being re-introduced to him post-1945."

America laughed.

"Touché, monsieur," he drawled in a poor attempt at a French accent. "I'll drink to that!"

England watched him drain the rest of his lemonade, sipping at his own rather more carefully.

"Alfred," he said quietly. "Can I ask you something? And... and please be honest."

America frowned.

"When am I ever not honest?" he asked, blinking owlishly.

England scowled.

"When you're lying through your teeth, you little bugger."

America burst out laughing, clearly amused.

"Well, gee, sure," he said, flapping his hand. "Ouch, though. Nice shootin', Tex. Shoot again while the going is good!"

"Ah, w-well..." England swilled his lemonade around the glass, watching the ice cubes bouncing about like jettied boats. "About... your memories, old boy. You were wiped just like the rest of us and yet you seem to be largely unaffected, at least recently. How much do you remember exactly, Alfred – and how?"

America exhaled, looking skyward again for a moment. He put his free hand in his pocket and shifted his weight onto one leg, his hip jutting just enough to give him a curve. He was dressed very plainly in classic blue jeans, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a crude, battered metal cross on a chain glinting beneath his collar. He had had a cross (this cross) before, he had explained, one with a lot of meaning to him, a decades-old gift from some president or other; but, as a religious item, it had been taken away from him when his memory had been wiped. While their respective landmasses could be considered to have a specific religion following the greatest denomination of their people, the nations themselves were no longer allowed to identify with one particular belief and America had forgotten all about the cross for a very long time. Here, however, he wore what he said was a perfect replica of it, if his memory served him well—

Which it certainly seemed to. Noticing that America was hesitating, England decided to start with the cross, pointing at it.

"That, then," he said. "You reckon you used to have one exactly like that but they took it from you back in '45. When did you remember about it?"

"'Couple of years ago," America replied, touching the cross with his fingertips. "Bastards threw the thing in the fire right in front of me just before I was wiped. I was pissed, lemme tell you! Grant gave me this waaaaay back in the 1870s. It's made outta a bit of an old Union musket." He looked at England, still rubbing at the cross. "Do you remember it? It used to hang on the same chain as my dog tags in the war. You always used to be very careful with it even when you were being rough because you knew how much it meant to me. The whole thing, actually – you'd sit and be all 'I remember when I was Pagan' and talk about how your country went from being Catholic to Protestant and back and forth for centuries, so if it was all the same to me, you'd skip out on the church services they put on for the soldiers on a Sunday. You would wait for me, though." America grinned. "You'd call me a pious little prick but you'd wait all the same."

England shook his head.

"I don't remember," he said. "I'm sorry. You know I don't."

America smiled.

"Yeah," he replied gently, "I know. Thought I'd ask anyway. It was sweet of you."

"Don't try and distract me."

"I'm not!" America said incredulously. "Jeez, you can ask whatever you want! It's not like anyone can hear us down here."

"Then how the hell did you get your memory back?" England demanded. "Because to be honest, I'd rather like mine back."

America sighed.

"Look, it was just... kind of like how I was able to build all this. I'm pretty powerful, after all. I unearthed all my memories by overriding the lock on them." He shrugged. "Plus, I mean... I don't have a whole lot of history so I guess they didn't bury it as deep." Looking at England helplessly, he added gently, "I... I don't think you're going to be able to get yours back as easily, babe."

England turned away from him.

"I know that," he said bitterly. "I know." He gave an angry sigh of his own. "It's just that... oh, how could they do this to us, Alfred? I understand their theory – take away our memory of before when we were free to love and hate and whatever else and we won't ever know that freedom, we won't resent that we're basically prisoners now, but... my god, they're asking us to sacrifice for things that we don't remember either!" He clenched his fists. "All Hall does is go on about how people died for me in that fucking war, how much they gave up to serve me and protect me, and that I should be prepared to do the same for them now – but I don't remember anything of what they did! If I could, perhaps I might feel differently, but all I have are his words to relay their bravery and it stirs nothing within me because I feel that I have never known it. They made a mistake, Alfred. They took away our love for our people. History is the only thing that ties us to those faceless masses who call themselves British or American or German or French and I can't remember anything of mine."

"Your history or your masses?"

"Both!" England closed his eyes in frustration as he felt America wrap his arms around his shoulders comfortingly. "I really... can't remember anything at all. All the monuments on my lands, the scars of battlefields and faultlines of old kingdoms... There are books and books and books on the history of Britain and it all means nothing to me. There are school children who know more about me than I do."

"I know about you," America purred in his ear. "Shall I regale you? It's not your whole history, just what I know, but it's something."

England shifted in America's arms, looking down at the glass of lemonade he was still clutching.

"I suppose so," he muttered. "Though I'm sure you'll make half of it up."

"As if I would take such a liberty."

America laughed and reached down, taking England by the wrist and whirling him under his arm to face him as though they were dancing; England lost his grip on the glass and it slipped out of his fingers and shattered on the cobblestones. America didn't seem terribly perturbed, stepping on the glass to make it crunch merrily beneath his shoe as he pulled England off the path and right into the flowers.

"Alfred, I just spent all morning pruning these!" England cried angrily, trying to avoid stepping on them as America dragged him along.

"Don't you worry, I'll put 'em back the way I found 'em," America promised, leading England through their thick wilderness. "I'll put everything back the way it was in just a moment."

"Everything...?" England looked up and found that the house and the boundaries of the tiny, perfect garden were gone – and instead they were knee-deep in wildflowers and lush grass stretching as far as the eye could see. The air was fresher here, too, newer and gentler; there was no sign at all of human life, much less the frosted-gingerbread suburbs of the American Dream Factory—

But that high, clear, cornflower sky was the same as ever.

"Where are we?" England asked, pulling his hand out of America's to step away from him.

"The New World." America laughed again. "Well, not really – but sort of yes really too, I guess. These are my lands; and they looked like this once." He reached down and plucked up a bright yellow flower, tucking it into the knot of England's tie. "There you go – a Mayflower for you."

England frowned.

"Mayflower?"

"That's the ship you came on," America explained. "You came before that, too, on a ship called the Susan Constant, but all you were looking for was gold and I was scared of you because you and your men ripped apart my land. I hid from you. But when you came again, you seemed... different. Kinder. So I showed myself to you. You wanted me but you had to fight off Francis and Antonio to get me. You won, obviously – so you got to keep me and raise me."

"I expect I was horrible at it."

America laughed.

"Well, sometimes. Other times you were great. You used to tell the best stories and you always brought me presents from your travels and one time you made me these really awesome wooden soldiers! You always had to go away, though, because your empire was getting bigger and you always had so much work to do. That's what started causing the trouble, actually. You had that damn East India Company and so many imperial wars you couldn't pay for 'em all, so your government decided to start taxing everything it sent over here to the American colonies so it could get money to pay off its debts. Needless to say, my colonists weren't too happy about that so we all dressed up and went and chucked your expensive tea into Boston Harbor."

"I'm sure I didn't take too kindly to that," England said warily as America took his hand again and began to pull him.

"Oh, man, you were pissed! We had a war over it!" America threw out his free arm, gesturing to their surroundings – the same lands, it seemed, but grey and wet and carved up, muddy and flooded with thickets of broken muskets and piles of dead men in red and blue. "Well, that and some other stuff... I don't remember half of it now but the point is that me and some other guys with wigs on all got together and decided we'd declare independence and make our own awesome country but you—well, more like your government was like 'Hell no! We need to tax you guys to pay for wars that have nothing to do with you!' so there was the American Revolution for like ten years, and here's the funny thing – you guys had way more men than us, more money, better equipment, better training, better organisation, the whole lot. You probably coulda won but for some reason you didn't seem all that into it so you pretty much gave up and let us be our own awesome country. I guess your government was just a bunch of cheapskates and the war was getting too expensive and that was kinda the problem in the first place so they decided to bail."

He kept tugging at England, making him walk through the imaginary battlefield, ankle-deep and higher still in mud. It had started to rain and England kept his head down, stalling and trying his hardest not to look, bumping into America's back when he stumbled. America glanced at him, smiling.

"I guess this doesn't ring any bells, huh?" he said gently. "You look like you're gonna be sick. This really used to not bother you, you know. I suppose you just got used to wars and how they looked."

"All these dead men over some tea?" England asked flatly, looking up at him. The rain wasn't making them wet. "Really?"

"Tea and some other stuff. Don't sweat it, Artie. It's long in the past now." America squeezed his hand. "So, anyway, about you – there you are, one colony down, though you've already long since pinched Matthew from Francis. You're not going to let a military and financial humiliation like losing the American Revolution to a bunch of upstart colonists stop you going global! There's the War of 1812 next – my bad, admittedly. Thought I'd invade Matthew's land and steal it but you were all up in my face with your bayonet telling me to lay off him. I didn't so you burnt down my White House, which was kind of a dick move. The whole thing kind of ends up a draw and I guess you decide that you're sick of dealing with me so you leave me to it, pretty much ignoring me while I have this whole Civil War thing that really could have gone better. You're stabler and richer and savvier than me and you decide it's time for The British Empire: Take Two!"

America gave him an extra-sharp little tug and suddenly they were on cobblestones. England finally looked up properly, glancing around as America briskly hurried him along the narrow street lined either side with small, glass-fronted shops selling flowers and bread and leather and cloth and books.

"You start expanding again, you see, and it pays off. You get rich as hell because you're the hub of international trading, with ports all over the world to bring in the dough; and you develop your navy and pour all this money into it and suddenly you're the wealthiest, most powerful nation in the world."

They rounded a corner and plunged into very heart of London, bursting with a crowd of beautiful ladies, rich and poor alike, in long dresses and lace bonnets, and gentlemen of all walks of life in waistcoats and hats; carriages and dogcarts pulled by horses in gleaming brass with children running amongst them clutching dolls and toys and sweets. They were draining, all of them, towards a huge, gleaming structure of cast iron and glass, brilliant and imposing against London's low, drab skyline like a perfect diamond.

"Welcome to the Victorian Era," America said smugly, putting his free hand on his hip. He stole a glance at England, who was looking up at the building in utter awe. "And welcome to the Great Exhibition of 1951 – Great Britain's stab at a world's fair. People from all over the globe will come to this event to marvel at the inventions of the Industrial Revolution. This is a proud moment in your history, Arthur. These are your people – and they've all come to worship you."

England looked at him briefly.

"You're awfully knowledgeable about this," he noted.

"Well, yeah! I came to this thing! You weren't exactly Mr Nice Guy to me, I guess you were still kind of ticked off, but it was pretty cool all the same. I was seriously impressed. Enough to have my own forty years later, even!" America started to pull at him again. "Anyway, we have to move on. There's more to this story. You're practically king of the fucking world for like sixty years but of course it all has to come crashing down sooner or later. The Industrial Revolution, the thing that made you so rich in the first place, proves to be your undoing. The advances in technology change the way war is fought, you see, and you used to have this strategic and naval advantage but it's not gonna be the case for much longer with the way stuff is starting to look. And things in Europe have been getting a bit hostile recently – Ludwig's leaders are all getting a bit antsy, they look at you and Francis and Antonio and Ivan and they think that it's pretty unfair that they've never had that kind of power or wealth or land. They want an empire like yours, Arthur, and Ludwig doesn't have much of a say in the matter either way. Everyone starts taking sides and it's obvious that there's gonna be a war."

America ducked down another alleyway and England, still looking longingly at the Crystal Palace, practically fell down the cobblestone steps after him. America caught him but England lay limp in his arms for a moment, breathing in the air. It wasn't the stale, cloistered air of London. It smelt different, metallic, smoky. When he straightened, he wasn't looking at walls made out of sooty brick anymore but instead at steep and uneven inclines of earth – long, narrow tunnels of damp, packed soil with no roof and only a frill of barbed wire for decoration. The staccato song of gunfire haunted the distant air, tumbling over the top and congealing at the bottom of the trench alongside frozen, huddled men.

"Anything could have caused it," America explained blandly, easily picking his way through the debris of shattered crates and dented helmets and spent shells. "It was so hostile, so lethal, even a causal insult could have ignited it. As it happens, some guys from one country shooting some guy from some other country means Belgium will wind up getting invaded through some long chain reaction and you're kinda pally with Belle so you and Francis club together and start beating up on Ludwig as best you can and then Roderich and Elizaveta and Ivan and just about fucking everyone starts joining in. It's 1914 and the First World War – or the Great War, as they call it then – has started."

They stopped at a ladder and America looked at England with a sad smile.

"And it's awful, you know," he said wistfully. "It's really awful. War is always awful but it's never been like this. Everyone has all these new weapons and machines and all these young men are just being sent out to be hacked to pieces by machine gun fire and they just... just keep sending them over the top, over the top, over the top..." He let go of England's hand and hopped onto the ladder, beckoning. "Come on. Let's get outta here. The trenches are supposed to be the safe place but they're not really any better. Men die of disease and starvation and the cold – or they get shell-shock and go mad and can't cope with it anymore so they run and then... well, then their own generals have them shot for cowardice." He started up the ladder. "The war to end all wars, they called it. They sold it to us Yankees like that – even though it had been so appalling for three years, they still sold it to us like it was a good thing." He shook his head. "Fuck, Arthur, be glad you can't remember this, of all things. I can't even describe it."

America hauled himself over the edge and reached back to England, taking his wrist and practically lifting him the rest of the way up the ladder. They scrambled through a gap in the barbed wire and England held his breath, terrified of what he'd see.

They were wading through a sea of sensuous scarlet, a field of wild and ragged poppies which sank and flowed with the breeze – the comb-over carpet desperately covering the guilty carnage beneath. This had been No Man's Land once but England had seen it only in black-and-white photographs, grainy and battered in books, and never so vividly, that old and dreadful sin transformed into a sleepy, silent offering to the Great War's dead.

It was stunning but still terribly, terribly sad.

America was quiet now, pausing; he held open his hand and England hesitated before slipping his own back into it, following America's gaze upwards. The sky was grey with feathery touches of orange and pink at its hem, completely empty and oppressively silent.

"On the eleventh of November, 1918, the guns finally stopped," America said. "And you know what? That was the easy part. The peace came at a terrible price, paid in the blood of an entire generation the world over. And it didn't stop there. Somebody had to take the blame for it, right? And it couldn't be the Allies because, hell, we won the war, we were the good guys. But someone was gonna get punished and you... jeez, you were pissed off, Arthur. The damage this thing did to your empire was pretty much irreparable. So between you having your imperial glory stuffed through the shredder and poor old Francis and Belle having their lands put through it, too, there was blood money to be had and Ludwig was gonna pay for it."

"You're making me sound awful," England said blandly, looking down at the poppies clustered thickly around his knees. "Vengeful and selfish and greedy."

"You were all of those things, sweetheart." America turned towards him and touched his face, rubbing his thumb gently across his cheek. "Not gonna lie, you were a self-serving dick once upon a time. Probably still are underneath all that repressed personality."

"Charming, I'm sure," England bit out.

"Nah." America grinned and put his hand over England's eyes, blindfolding him in order to lead him on a few paces. "You're the charming one, Mr Invincible British Gentleman. It's the Roaring Twenties now and you and Francis are bankrupting Ludwig between you, so you feel it's time to start going all affluent again, see if you can start building that good old British Empire Spirit back up. You and I are getting kinda friendly again at this point over mutual bitching-out-Ivan-for-bailing-in-1917 and everything's just one wild crazy party."

America lifted his hand away with a flourish to reveal their newest conjured location: a glossy, glittering club filled to the brim with ladies in short dresses and feathers in their hair and men in fitted suits, all stripes and sharp angles. The drinks poured fast and plentiful in a plethora of bright chemical colours and the music swelled in every empty space.

"I mean, the war's over, right, and everyone just wants to let loose," America explained lightly, leading England through the glitzy crowd to the bar. "I guess my guys start letting a little too loose because come 1920, alcohol gets banned in the States and to be honest it makes the problem worse instead of better, but hey, what did I care right then? I was over here with you getting blitzed off my ass and you, you're a fuckin' pro at getting blitzed off your ass and we have a lot of gross sloppy drunken sex in expensive hotel rooms and it's awesome and everyone's havin' a grand old time and it's like the war never even happened!"

America leaned over the bar and seemed to lift their drinks out of nowhere, two shallow glasses with an opal-tinted potent persuasion tumbling over the rocks. He handed England his and clinked their glasses together; England holding his between his palms and not terribly interested in it.

"Uh, unfortunately..." America frowned, sipping at his drink. "Well, yeah, everyone's having a grand old time except the Germans, but we'll come back to them later; and the fact that everyone else is having a grand old time means no-one thinks the grand old time is gonna stop, not even the experts, so no-one is prepared at all for 1929 when suddenly poof! no money! They call it the Great Depression and that's a damn good name for it because no-one's happy about it, lemme tell you. You go back to being a conniving little bitch and I suddenly have dust all over my... bowl, I guess, so we go our separate ways for a while and there are no more wild crazy parties where everyone has a grand old time, especially not in that wild crazy party they call the Nazi Party."

America leaned against the bar, swilling his drink back and forth, and looked up at the ceiling; frowning, England turned his back on the party gradually grinding down behind them, giving America his fullest attention.

"See, you and Francis, let's be honest, fucked Ludwig over with the Treaty of Versailles," America said conversationally. "He has to pay reparations, he's not allowed a military, the Weimar Republic isn't working out so hot for him and he's been utterly humiliated. I mean, you don't care, you're still licking your own wounds – but that's the problem. Nobody pays any attention to Germany and the hotbed of resentment it becomes. The leaders, the people and Ludwig himself, they're so damned angry and they feel so weak that all it takes is one Austrian nutjob with a Charlie Chaplin moustache telling them he'll make them great again for them to all fall into the deathtrap that becomes Nazi Germany. I reckon Ludwig realised what that guy was capable of pretty early on but the loon was the fuckin' chancellor by 1933 and with all his people supporting the Nazi Party, there wasn't much he could do. Back on this side of the Channel, your boy Churchill is harping on to anyone who'll listen, including my boss, that there's gonna be another war, not that anyone's paying him much heed – but here's something interesting. Now you and Ludwig actually go back a little bit, Artie: your royal families are intertwined and you were pretty good friends before the Great War and to be honest, although you're not exactly Number One in his books right now, he doesn't actually hate you. And Hitler, well, I guess he sees it from a military perspective as much as he does a Prussian-and-British-Empire fanboy one. Neither one of 'em, for different reasons, really wants to go to war with you so they offer you a deal – you and your government mind your own business and they won't touch anything left of your empire, nor will they engage you in warfare. Sounds like a pretty fair arrangement – but of course you don't take it 'cause I guess you'd rather punch Ludwig in his poverty-stricken Aryan face. The sheer audacity of him offering you a peace treaty is enough to make you run straight to Francis to knock together another blood-pact to beat up Ludwig if he invades X-country. The country in favour this time is Poland and you guys promise Feliks you'll declare war if Ludwig so much as bats his eyelashes in his direction. Fortunately for you and your bloodlust, Ludwig pals up with Ivan and does a whole lot worse than that and the Second World War begins!" America grinned. "How exciting!"

He slammed his drink down on the bar, took England's from him and did the same and then turned him around by the shoulders. The party, it seemed, was yet ongoing – but the people looked different, all the men in uniform and half the women, too, less interested in drink and more interested in dancing to the swing band set up in the corner. There was a real flare of familiarity about this, England felt, a prickling sense of nostalgia as America put his arm about him to lead him through the crowd. He almost remembered them being in those wool uniforms, almost recalled what it was like to come to these underground places and try and forget the horrors of what was going on outside their fragile walls.

"This war is different again," America went on. "Both sides really use air warfare to their advantage now and the war is fought everywhere, not just on the field and in the trenches. Nobody is safe anymore."

Out of the pub and into the street; London laid to ruin, rubble and glass littering the pavement with the smoking, twisted framework of bombed-out buildings the only sky-high skeletal remains. The street was empty but the echo of their footsteps was buried beneath the wail of the air raid siren and the occasional overhead roar of an RAF fighter.

"This ain't even the worst this war will see," America said, helping England over the warped corpse of a car. "Whole areas of Poland, Ukraine, Russia get completely desecrated, you and I burn Dresden to the fucking ground and my god, you don't even wanna know what Kiku did to Yao. You got Feliciano's guys chopping and changing sides all over the place but Feliciano himself cowers behind Ludwig until there's nothing to cower behind anymore. And Ludwig's guys, well... they start off doing pretty well for themselves, taking just about everything they can get their hands on, but they get all the way to France and you manage to get Francis and De Gaulle outta there before they stick a Swastika on the Eiffel Tower and it looks like after that all those Nazis have to do is take Britain but Arthur Kirkland's not going down without a fight, no sir! You kick his Luftwaffe all the way back to Berlin and then they all start panicking and think that if they can't have you, they'll have Ivan instead." America actually laughed. "Well, that was a mistake and half, lemme tell you. Ivan's on our side now – and I say our side because Kiku also makes a mean motherfucker of a mistake and bombs my naval base at Pearl Harbor. The Awesome Allied Powers are fully-formed and the war begins to go pretty badly for the Axis!"

The ground under their feet seemed to sink now, every step accompanied by a soft, serene little splash; and a glance downwards informed England that they were now on a beach, treading along the shallow shoreline. The sand was pale silver beneath the light of early morning, riddled with bullet holes like old lace, overturned by the tracks of Jeep tyres and scattered with dead soldiers as though they were common cockle shells.

"The tide turns, if you'll excuse the pun, on June 6th, 1944." America didn't look back, pulling England insistently along the beach. "D-Day – you, Matthew and I go in through France while Ivan and Yao push the other way. It takes almost a year but we push 'em back and back and back and suddenly there's nowhere left to run. Hitler decides he doesn't wanna be hung in the streets like Mussolini was and kills himself and the war in Europe ends. All the ugly starts coming out then. There are these death camps and it's just... well, again, be glad you can't remember it. When we went into them..." He exhaled and then shook his head. "That war turned people into such monsters, it's not hard to see why the humans want to prevent it from happening again. Afterwards, you know, when we all saw what had been going on in there, Ludwig started crying. Half of them were his own people, after all."

A crimson stain began to bleed along the horizon, whispering over the grey waters, and America eventually stopped, England bumping into his back. The red flare glossed over his glasses.

"The worst is still to come, though," he said quietly. "Because Kiku won't surrender—"

"Yes, I know what happens!" England finally interjected; and as though breaking free of the spell America had had him under, he tore his hand loose and turned away as the mushroom cloud bloomed in the sky like a hideous flower. "You said this was my history, Alfred – and that had nothing to do with me."

"The hell it didn't," America replied coolly. "A lot of your guys worked on it and you yourself signed the agreement to end the war the way we did. I can't spare you your share of the blame simply outta the goodness of my heart, Arthur."

England said nothing.

"Well," America sighed behind him, "I guess that's kind of it. Kiku and his government surrender, the war ends with the good guys the victors and your empire is completely fucked – not that it matters all that much to you because two months later they wipe your memory just like they do everyone else's."

The beach faded at long last and they were back in the garden under that blue sky, pulled in protectively by their white picket fence. England still had the yellow Mayflower in his tie and plucked it out, twirling it this way and that in a bid to not meet America's gaze.

"Huh, well, it doesn't look like my little whistle-stop tour did much to make you warm up to your people," America noted. "You probably dislike 'em more than ever now, seeing just what people can do to each other. It'd be nice if it was just the two of us, huh?"

He leaned in, kissed England on the cheek and walked away towards the house.

"You said that was my history," England said again suddenly, watching him go. "But it was barely any of it, really – even I know that – and it all had something or other to do with you!"

"Well, yeah," America replied, blinking at him incredulously. "This is the American Dream, Arthur – and even it if wasn't, that's what happened after the war. The moral of the story is that you aren't the powerful one anymore, sweetheart. Now everything that exists is in relation to me."


"I've worked it all out!"

America's voice chimed from the kitchen doorway and England, standing at the grill, glanced at him over his shoulder in puzzlement.

"You've worked what out?" he asked, frowning. America was dressed in a full suit, excellent cut and charcoal finish, with his hair neatly combed.

"What jobs we'll have down here, of course!" America chirped in reply, tightening the knot of his blue tie as he crossed to the table – and for the first time, England noticed that the typewriter from the study upstairs was tucked under his arm. "This is the American Dream, Arthur! Someone has to go out and win bread!"

"Alfred, this entire world is a figment of your imagination," England said blandly, looking back to his burning eggs and jabbing at them with a fork. "Surely there is no bread to win – or bills to pay with it, for that matter."

"Just humour me," America insisted, putting the typewriter down on the table. "This is what the American Dream runs on. We can't just languish about the house all day, we'd be doing it all wrong. You can't live an ideal if you're not living it ideally." Sitting down, he tapped the typewriter. "To be fair, you've already practically turned into a housewife without any nudging – but I think you'll go mad if you just slide into that role and don't do anything else. So I've decided that you'll be a bestselling author! You like books and stuff, right? Between your cooking and cleaning duties, you can write a shrewd, observant, slightly-ironic moral tale of day-to-day life. Pick apart this perfect world and lay bare its flaws for all the world to see and in years to come, they'll hail your sharp-witted novel as a classic of the era, the one truthful voice of an oppressive post-war decade, a daring exposé of the pampered, humdrum existence of the modern suburban housewife – that lucky, lucky girl with her rich, handsome, breadwinning husband who came back a triumphant hero from the war."

"And what are you going to do?" England asked coldly, peeling his cauterised eggs off the bottom of the pan.

"Be a district attorney, of course!" America announced. "Dealing out justice to the wicked, being a hero, that sort of stuff!"

"How unrealistic. You should have an office job." England smirked. "Be a salesman or something and die a death chasing your dreams."

America gave a snort.

"That's pretty boring," he said. He pushed aside the typewriter to reach for the coffeepot. "You're not gonna write a very good book with an imagination like that."

"Oh, of course not," England replied smoothly, bringing breakfast to the table and sitting opposite America. "I suppose I'd need an imagination as vast as yours. If you can make up a whole world, I'm sure you can make up a book. On that note, why don't you be the bestselling author and I'll be the run-of-the-mill breadwinner? It won't exactly matter what job I do since there's no economy here and we've nothing to pay for."

"Tch, you gotta start thinking about this in long-term... uh, terms," America said dismissively, beginning to pile helpings of England's extravagant but poorly-executed breakfast banquet onto his plate. "We're gonna have a whole life down here, Artie. I told you – Christmas is on the cards, naturally, and I'm just gonna keep figuring out how to keep us down here for longer and longer. Maybe I can eventually completely sever this level of our consciousness from the one we use in reality and we can stay down here all the time and our physical bodies can just get on with it. I mean, that's all they want us for anyway – economy-calculating automatons. I don't really see what the problem would be. They'd probably prefer it if we never talked back."

"Alfred—"

"Look, this isn't just for you and me, right?" America went on excitedly. "When I get this whole thing stable enough, I plan on bringing everyone down here! We'll all just live here and everyone can be with whoever they want and we'll have our own little suburban community! It'll be great!"

He looked at England, his blue eyes very deep and wide.

"Because I'm so sick of this, you know?" he said quietly. "I'm so sick of everyone having to hide. I'm so sick of... of the fear, of the consequences—"

"Well, it's rather too late for some, no matter your good intentions," England interjected coolly. "Antonio, of course, and Feliciano, not... not to mention Ludwig..." He looked around the pretty, perfect kitchen. "How is this fair, Alfred? They were punished and we... we have matching furniture."

"Arthur, I couldn't save everyone." America looked at him desperately. "Maybe I still can't – but I'm gonna try, okay?" He gave a weak smile. "Please believe me that I'll do my best."

England sighed, picking at his food.

"I know you will, love," he said softly. "And you're good to even think of it. You are, Alfred – you're a kind, selfless person. But it isn't fair. It isn't fair that it's like this."

America watched him for a moment over his coffee.

"You're very different now, you know," he said at length, making England look up guardedly from his eggs. "Than you were before you had your memory erased, I mean. You were arrogant then – and aggressive and pretty high-and-mighty and stuck-up and selfish. You'd never have sympathised with anyone like that – or said it was unfair that your circumstances were better than someone else's. I mean, don't get me wrong, you had morality and I guess deep-down you were a good guy and all; you didn't have to go to war to protect Feliks, you could have told him to get stuffed and taken the bargain you were offered instead, but you didn't. You chose to fight for his freedom and I gotta figure your heart had to be somewhere near the right place in order for you to do that. But for you, the world didn't seem to work in terms of "fair" and "unfair". It seemed like you felt that anyone whose position was poor simply wasn't willing to fight their way out of it. It was pretty weird – you were a good person but you didn't have any compassion."

England arched an eyebrow, putting down his fork.

"And what about you?" he inquired lightly. "Have you changed too?"

America frowned and looked up at the ceiling.

"Huh," he said at length, shrugging. "I guess so. Maybe I'm not quite as optimistic... or well, confident in my heroic abilities. I've seen a lot to convince me otherwise, haha."

"Do elaborate."

"Well... Right now I just said that I'd try my best to save everyone." America gave a sheepish little grin. "Back in the war I wouldn't have said that I'd try anything. I would have just said that I'd do it."

"I see." England smiled. "Well, you've done all this, so I suppose that has to count for something. It's more freedom than I could ever have hoped for – and striving for freedom does seem to be what you do best."

America's grin broadened.

"You think so?"

England nodded, reaching for his teacup. America saw him doing it and snatched up his coffee, raising it into the air.

"Swell," he said, beaming. "Then I propose a toast. In the name of freedom, to Ludwig and Feliciano and Antonio."

England gave him a wan but real smile and lifted his cup to America's, clinking their matching porcelain edges together.

"And in the name of freedom," he added quietly, "to us."


It was both notable and noticeable that South Italy had not looked up once so far, chasing his food around his plate uninterestedly despite scoldings from his handler. Though of a dour sensibility to begin with, he looked downright and undeniably miserable, wilting beneath the weight of himself. He did not spare Spain a single glance but the very pinpoint of his pain was obvious.

There were eleven nations at this table, interspersed by their attendants to make the full sum of twenty-two; North and South Italy, Spain, France, Austria, Germany, Hungary, Belgium, Portugal, Holland and England to make up the representation of the utmost Western edge of Europe. This was commonly the case at meals, the handlers finding it easier to keep track of everyone by arranging them into mostly-geographical groups: Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Scandinavia, Asia, Middle East, etc, although there were exceptions. China didn't sit with the rest of Asia, instead being grouped politically with Cuba, Russia and the rest of the Soviet Union, whilst the general scattered locations of former European colonies saw Australia, Seychelles and New Zealand seated with America, Canada and Mexico.

The meals were a mere regimental necessity, a formality to give the world meetings a greater sense of friendliness about them, usually taking place in the hotel's restaurant. Nations were free to talk amongst those in their geographical group but not to call or speak to anyone else from another table, and while they were permitted to choose their own meals, alcohol was strictly prohibited. Work went on as usual, of course, with handlers keeping an eye on their hand-held calculators – and all too often nations were required to leave their food in favour of returning to their room for yet another attempt at controlling the economy.

Unlike South Italy, America was (understandably, perhaps) very hungry and was eating as quickly as he could, obviously in cringing anticipation of being made to throw down his fork and direct his appetite elsewhere; England watched him out of the corner of his eye as he ate his own meal, wondering what exactly he was plotting—

Working on. He was working on something, allegedly. Something which he seemed terribly confident that England would love.

(Just don't do anything stupid. It was all he could think. America was so powerful, so capable, that he was dangerous – not because he was aggressive but simply because he was barely contained by the imposing restrictions of the world order and seemed to crave freedom more than any of them. It was enough that he barely had the condom on before he was hijacking England's consciousness and spiriting it away to an empty replica room; England appreciated that small effort and hoped that America knew he did. He didn't want America to put himself at risk for the sake of impressing him. Look what they did to Antonio. Please, please don't do anything stupid, Alfred.)

North Italy was happily chattering to Belgium (who, sitting opposite, was nodding politely at his every word) when his attendant, a dark-haired man named Moretti, suddenly looked down at his hand-held device and frowned at it for a moment before addressing his charge in Italian. South Italy, too, looked up ever-so-briefly before dipping his head again.

For North Italy's sake, England found himself hoping that the match wasn't with Germany. It was a known fact that Italy was rather... affectionate when it came to economic couplings with the German representative and after what had happened to Spain... well, perhaps it would be better if the two of them were kept separate for as long as possible. Like England with America, Italy had had a relationship with Germany throughout the Second World War – and, like America, seemed to remember much more of it than he should. Coupled with his obliviousness of the danger he was in by showing favouritism towards Germany, often touching him "inappropriately", it was safe to say that Italy was on extremely thin ice and would probably be the next to have his personality completely wiped if he wasn't careful.

But then Hall glanced at his own calculator and looked up to meet Moretti's gaze. Moretti nodded and stood, clearing his throat and putting a hand on Italy's shoulder to make him shut up.

"Northern Italy and Great Britain, 11.6 match," he said.

England groaned inwardly. Better him than Germany, perhaps – but he was barely halfway through his meal and he was hungry and they would probably have taken it away by the time he came back. Besides, Italy was a nuisance, constantly having to be repositioned by Moretti because he tended to flail about during the act; he had once fallen off France completely, in fact, and then wailed for half an hour because he had hit his head, not to mention the scratch-marks he'd given Austria, the bruise he'd given China by accidentally kicking him and the not-so-accidental bitemark he'd left on Germany's wrist. America had groused that Italy tended to seize whatever he could, too, which England could agree with since Italy had once grabbed his hair and it had hurt like a bitch.

He deliberately speared another piece of steak and put it in his mouth, trying his best to savour it even as Hall gave an impatient cough and rose, jostling his elbow. Italy was naturally putting up more of a fuss, whining in Italian about wanting to finish his pasta, a plight towards which Moretti seemed to have little sympathy. Lamentably finishing his mouthful, England stood and folded his napkin, pushing in his chair, and waited; Italy, on the contrary, seemed extremely reluctant to leave his meal and clung to the tablecloth when Moretti began to wrestle with him, squirming and making life difficult for him. Both Austria and his attendant appeared disgusted by the display and looked fixedly down at their food.

Clearly embarrassed, Moretti looked up at Hall as he struggled with his charge.

"Signor Hall, I apologise," he said. "Feliciano, you will come at once!"

"I want to finish my pasta!" Italy wailed; he looked desperately at Germany as Moretti managed to disentangle him from the tablecloth. "Ludwig, help me!"

Germany looked up at him sharply, his pale face positively white; Dreher, who looked furious, was on the verge of answering for him when South Italy suddenly stood up and slammed his hands down on the table.

"Feliciano, do as you are told!" he shouted angrily.

There was silence in the wake of this outburst. Even South Italy's attendant didn't seem to know what to say, gaping as South Italy himself sank abruptly back into his seat, red-faced, and returned to stabbing ferociously and unproductively at his meal. North Italy went limp, stunned, and simply stared at his brother as Moretti finally managed to steer him away from his seat.

Spain gave a sudden smile, tilting his head at South Italy.

"You have fire in you, little one," he purred delightedly. "It is interesting to see."

"Be quiet, Alonso," García bit out. Spain simply blinked, looking curiously at France (who was shaking his head at him, his mouth a tight little line).

South Italy dipped his head, his shoulders shuddering. He did not make a sound, however.

"Fratello," England heard Italy murmur forlornly as they were hustled away from the Western Europe table.

America was leaning over the back of his chair as they passed the mismatched table of former colonies, chewing on a toothpick.

"What the hell's goin' on over there?" he inquired, arching his eyebrows as he addressed the question towards England.

"Alfred, mind your own business," Clark said dryly.

"Yes, do mind your own business," Hall repeated, eying America in distaste; he steered England deliberately away from him. "This is between Arthur and Feliciano. It has nothing to do with your bleeding Lend-Lease."

America shrugged.

"Couldn't care less about the Lend-Lease," he said breezily. "Don't even remember what that is."

"Shut your damn pie-hole, Alfred," Clark snapped, taking America's tie and forcing him upright again. America simply laughed obnoxiously and leaned across to talk to Canada instead.

England kept his head down; but, just as they were leaving the hotel's restaurant, he allowed his gaze to flicker up briefly over the top of Italy's head. His eyes met America's, who was watching him whilst pretending to have a conversation with his hapless twin.

America winked at him, smiling, before looking properly at Canada again. England too averted his gaze, glancing worriedly at Hall through his eyelashes – but, to his relief, Hall was engaged in discussing something with Moretti and not paying him much heed. Italy shuffled along next to him, looking thoroughly miserable.

They went to Italy's hotel room and went through all the motions; the door was locked, position was briefly discussed in a methodical fashion, condom and lubricant were handed out, calculators were checked to ensure that the coupling was still beneficial. Italy, the receiving party, was told to prepare himself, Moretti watching him like a hawk the entire time (which led England to conclude, as he had before, that Italy was prone to fantasising certain things – or certain someones – that he shouldn't be at these times). Of course, it was understandable why he did it, and truthfully England did allow his own thoughts to stray towards America when needed to get hard – like now, because truthfully he just didn't find Italy all that appealing and it was clearly mutual – but Italy was stupid about these things and sometimes said Germany's name.

Italy lay limp like a ragdoll on the bed, not helping at all when England tried to move into position over him; he simply squeezed his eyes shut and didn't even lift his hips. England, who wasn't allowed to touch him, exhaled impatiently and looked at Moretti.

"I can't enter him," he said wearily. Moretti grumbled to himself in Italian before coming to the bed, taking Italy's open belt and forcing him to raise his hips, bracing him so that England could push into him.

Italy gave a grunt and a sharp exhale, squeezing his eyes even tighter. He whined as England started to move.

"Am I hurting you, Feliciano?" England asked impatiently, stopping again.

Moretti headed Italy off, snorting.

"Ignore him, Arthur," he said curtly. "He is always like this with anyone who is not Ludwig, as you know. Keep going – it need not take long if you hurry."

England looked down at Italy, who had his face scrunched in clear discomfort. Exhaling, England moved again, shunting forwards, and Italy shuddered, grabbing at the sheets.

"It hurts," he whimpered.

"Feliciano, I have had enough of this!" Moretti said angrily. "Just be quiet. It is unfortunate that it is uncomfortable, I am afraid, but you never seem to have this problem when it is Signor Ludwig."

Italy actually opened his big amber eyes, looking up at England pleadingly. England looked away, disgusted that he was inside him, practically raping him – and wasn't that the case across the board? Italy didn't want to have sex with anyone but Germany, that much was clear; and England didn't want to have sex with anyone but America. He certainly didn't want to be balls-deep in Italy any more than Italy wanted to lie there and take it.

"I'm hurting him," England said, starting to pull back. "As much as this may be necessary for the economy, there seems to be little point in it if it is causing him pain—"

"Then switch positions!" Hall burst out angrily. "For God's sake, we don't have time for this!"

He took England by the shoulder, pulling him away from Italy as Moretti moved in and lifted Italy beneath his back, making him sit up.

"Feliciano can ride," Hall went on briskly. "Fonteneau and I took this arrangement earlier with Arthur and Francis and it worked well." He nudged England towards the mattress. "Go on, lie down on your back. I'll help Moretti with Feliciano."

Despite his moral qualms and own desires, England knew he didn't really have much of a choice; there were no options in this practice. You either complied or you were forced – the latter of which was apparently about to happen to Italy. England had actually been in Italy's (literal) position himself, being lifted and forcibly impaled on Russia (who had apologised in his silvery voice and looked rather embarrassed that he was too big for half of the people he was made to couple with, England included). It was an unpleasant thing to be on the receiving end of and England wished sincerely that Italy had just been able to suck it up in the previous position.

He lay back with his legs a little open and his hands clasped tightly across his stomach, watching Moretti grapple with Italy; judging by the way he was flailing, England was under the impression that he himself would be lucky to come out of this without a black eye. Italy wasn't even speaking English anymore, screeching in Italian as he struggled. Hall came to help and together he and Moretti physically lifted Italy under his thighs, hefting his small form up to position him over England—

Italy suddenly gave a remarkable twist of his body and managed to get out of their grasp, tumbling off the bed in a sprawl of limbs. England sat up as Italy righted himself, secretly rather impressed, and watched him back up into the corner, looking like he was on the verge of tears.

"I want to be with Ludwig!" he said fervently, huddling as Moretti, red in the face, advanced on him. "Why is that so wrong?"

"Because this is not about what you want!" Moretti exploded, seizing Italy by his collar and shaking him. "You should know better than anyone that hanging off Ludwig's shirt-tails is not good for the Italian people! That war brought us to our knees! There is no money, Feliciano, and so this is what we must do if we want Italy to be even worth spitting at!"

He tried to drag Italy towards the bed again but Italy resisted, kicking at Moretti and getting away once more. He had gone back to Italian, wailing as though he was dying, but England could hear 'Ludwig' in there, the name vibrating beneath the passion in Italy's rich accent.

Hall kneaded his forehead and flapped his hand irritably at England.

"This obviously isn't going anywhere," he said icily. "You may as well get yourself presentable again, Arthur."

Moretti wheeled, clasping his hands together beseechingly as he looked at Hall.

"Signor Hall, my deepest apologies," he gabbled. "I sincerely hope that this will not affect the bond between our nations!" He glared at Italy, who had sunk into the corner, curled up as small as he could. "It would seem simply that we have a glitch."

"When the glitch is dealt with," Hall replied smoothly, "I am sure we can continue economic liaisons as normal. In the meantime, I'll telephone the Inland Revenue and have them input the data manually."

Moretti nodded.

"I shall do the same. Are you returning to the restaurant?"

"We will be, yes."

"Then," Moretti said, "if you would be so kind as to ask Dreher for a moment of his time. This has admittedly been an ongoing problem for some time now and I feel that we should get it straightened out. If you would be so kind as to tell him that I will meet him in the lobby's bar. He should bring Ludwig, of course."

"Of course, it would be my pleasure." Hall put out his hand and shook with Moretti. "I hope that you will be able to deal with the issue swiftly, Mr Moretti."

"That is my hope too, Signor Hall."

Hall gave a brisk nod and took England by the shoulder, ushering him out. England glanced over his shoulder, taking one last look at Italy, who miserably met his gaze before looking away again.

"Don't you go getting any bleeding ideas, Arthur," Hall said acidly, pulling the door behind them. "That behaviour just isn't on at all and you know it. Pull anything like that and I'll—"

"I'm merely surprised, is all," England interrupted mildly. "Of all people, I never thought North Italy would stand up for himself like that."

Hall gave an ugly snort.

"Call that standing up for yourself, eh?" he taunted. "I call it being a pain in the arse. Ungrateful bastards, the whole bloody lot of you..."

England was disappointed but not terribly surprised to find that his meal was gone when they got back to the restaurant; France actually looked rather apologetic and leaned across the table towards him.

"I tried to tell them that you were not done but they ignored me, of course," he drawled.

"It's alright," England sighed. "Thanks anyway, Francis." He glanced at Hall, who was muttering into Dreher's ear; France followed his gaze.

"Trouble in Paradise?" he inquired. "Where is dear Feliciano?"

"There was, ah, a bit of an issue," England replied in a low voice. "Of the 'I'm-not-Ludwig' variety."

France frowned; Austria, who had overheard, sighed into his napkin.

"Feliciano is an idiot," he muttered. "He is going to get them both into trouble."

"I think he already has," France said, nodding towards Dreher – who was getting up and dragging Ludwig with him.

South Italy looked up, watching Ludwig and his attendant leave – then looked at the two empty spaces of North Italy and Moretti.

"Where is Feliciano?" he demanded. He looked angrily at England. "You! Eyebrow-Bastard! What did you do?"

South Italy's attendant bit something out in angry Italian and South Italy clenched his fists but said nothing more.

"I didn't do anything," England replied as Hall came back and sat down next to him. "Literally. Feliciano wouldn't let me."

"Arthur, that is quite enough," Hall said. "I don't want you going hungry, by the by. We'll get you a dessert."

"I don't want a bloody dessert."

"Well, now you're just being grouchy and obtuse because you're hungry."

"Whose fault is it that I'm hungry?"

"Arthur, I'm not having this discussion with you," Hall said dangerously. He pushed the menu at him. "Either pick something and eat it or don't pick something and go hungry. I shan't be fetching you anything later."

England snatched up the menu and scanned down it irritably. He actually didn't want a dessert, he wasn't in the mood for anything sweet or sticky, especially not when he'd been enjoying his meal and wanted to finish it even though the option to clearly wasn't available – and worse still that he'd been dragged away from it for some pathetic excursion with Italy that hadn't had any benefit whatsoever. It really was quite a small issue, perhaps not worth getting angry about, but nonetheless it was tiresome the way they were treated like toddlers. Once upon a time, surely, a meal like this would have taken place without the extra presence of paid, serious attendants and the nations could talk about whatever they liked, sit by whoever they pleased, order what they wanted and have it accompanied by perhaps a glass of wine or a beer or even champagne; and eat at their own pace, too, talking and laughing between bites without worrying that they might be made to get up and leave at any moment, and then afterwards, if they wanted, they could order dessert – and after that retire to the bar in the lobby for a final drink, maybe brandy, and a cigarette—

Just looking at the fucking dessert menu was enough to make him fed up. He closed it and put it down decisively, observing that France was watching him with interest.

"I don't want anything." England pushed the menu back at Hall.

Hall scowled.

"Don't be clever with me, Arthur," he said icily.

"I'm not. I really don't want anything. I think I can make that decision for myself."

"Fine." Hall lit up a cigarette. "Go hungry, then."

"For fuck's sake, I'm a grown man," England growled. "Don't talk to me as though I'm a bleeding child."

"I'm not talking to you as though you're a child," Hall replied. "I'm talking to you as though I'm your superior – and you, in turn, will give me the respect that I deserve."

England simply snorted and looked away.

France raised his eyebrows at the exchange.

"It would seem that the rebellious spirit is catching, non?" he purred.

Fonteneau barked something at him in French but France didn't seem terribly perturbed.

"What was it your Shakespeare said?" he went on, looking fixedly at England. "Follow your spirit...?"

"And upon this charge cry "God for Harry, England and Saint George!"," England finished. He looked at Hall, who was clamping his cigarette tightly between white lips. "Although Mr Hall doesn't want anyone crying God for anything," he added, "least of all me. It's his favourite anti-war metaphor."

"Ah, of course," France agreed, waving his hand dismissively at Austria, who was shooting him a reproachful look. "That is the sum of it, it would seem. Nobody is to cry 'God!' for England – nor 'God!' for me, nor for anyone, in fact, and it would seem that it is a tragic mistake on Feliciano's part that he cries 'God!' for Germany—"

"Francis, that is enough," Fonteneau snapped.

France seemed satisfied by what he'd said, leaning back in his seat. South Italy was glaring blue murder at him, fists clenched, but he said nothing, hunched in his chair.

"I do not understand," Spain suddenly said. He looked at England. "Your Shakespeare, he speaks of war?"

"Yes," England replied guardedly. "In that passage, at least. It's from Henry V. It's about..." He shot France a look; France smirked at him, giving him an encouraging little nod. "...It's about fighting the French. The Hundred Years War."

Spain nodded.

"That speaks for itself," he said. "It is from Henry V. I know him not – but I assume he was a king of yours?"

"Yes." England gave a bitter smile. "I don't remember him, of course."

"It does not matter. He was a human, your ruler – and the play which bears his name speaks of war. I think that says enough." Spain smiled his usual empty smile. "I remember nothing of my past at all, and in truth remain unsure as to why some of you mistakenly call me 'Antonio' before correcting yourselves with haste, but I know that war is a human pursuit. It is, I assume, men who cry 'God for England' and not you yourself,señor." He looked at García. "Why, then, is it we who are blamed for war? Our hands would be bloodless were it not for you."

García didn't seem to know what to say, gaping at Spain – who in return observed him placidly, smiling the entire time.

Over the lull came a singular peal of applause; America, who had clearly been listening to the entire conversation, was draped over the back of his chair again, clapping quite enthusiastically.

"Alonso," he called, beaming, "I couldn't have said that any fuckin' better myself."

Hall stood up, pointing accusingly at America.

"Clark, get him under control!" he bellowed.

Clark exhaled a cloud of smoke from his cigar, looking at America rather jadedly.

"Alfred, don't make me put a bullet through your skull," he drawled, tapping off the ash.

America simply laughed and clapped Clark on the shoulder.

"Spoken like a true war vet, sir," he said cheerfully.

He didn't pursue the European conversation after that, seeming more interested in whatever story Australia's wild hand gestures were accompanying; England watched America's powerful back for a moment before looking back to France, who met his gaze. France often had a look about him which might once have meant that all he really wanted to do was get you into bed and have his wicked way with you – but since that was generally the casual order of the day more recently, now that sultry look meant something more strangely innocent. He wanted to talk, which had itself become dirtier and more taboo than sex; he wanted to pry secrets out of you like moans and whisper some of his own in your ear like filthy promises. It was obvious he wanted to spill forth his concerns about Italy to someone who would listen (because France had always had had a soft spot for Italy, it was obvious) and in return he wanted from England the details of what had happened—

But England knew there wasn't much point in opening his mouth. Hall would head him off the moment he breached the subject. So England simply gave France a helpless shrug and began to play with some salt left scattered on the table.

France seemed determined to try his luck anyway.

"Arthur," he began—

There was a clear, loud gunshot from beyond the restaurant and then what was undeniably a wail from North Italy.

All of the attendants were up in an instant, hauling their charges with them (not trusting them to be left alone for even a moment, naturally). Each of them had their guns cocked and ready as they got the nations into some semblance of order and filed them out of the restaurant as quickly as possible.

"They are trained for something like this, it becomes clear," France observed with interest. "What exactly are they expecting us to do, I wonder?"

They all came out into the lobby, met at once by the sound of Italy shrieking and sobbing in garbled Italian; and it was obvious at once why he was in such a state. Sprawled on the marble was Germany, spirals of blood flared out beneath his still body, Italy flung over his chest and grasping at his bloodied jacket as he cried.

Moretti, his lip bleeding, was still holding the gun.

Dreher, clearly in the midst of calming down the shocked bar staff and other guests, turned towards the gaggle of attendants and nations.

"There was a security breach," he said briskly. "It has been dealt with. I will be calling in my team now, as will Herr Moretti."

Clark nodded.

"Then I guess we should all just go ahead and call it a night," he said, addressing everyone else. "Don't want to be gettin' in the German team's way. We can discuss this tomorrow before we all leave."

And that was it. The attendants all gave their unanimous agreement and began to systematically scatter, taking their charges with them. The nations were all stunned, nobody putting up much of a fight as they were led away towards stairways and elevators. England saw France linger at the foot of the grand staircase, gazing back at Italy as Moretti tried to prise him off Germany's body. Fonteneau forced him to move and France's entire demeanour became visibly cold, stalking away with an angry toss of his head.

England knew why France had stopped to observe Italy in heartfelt pity; his cries seemed to fill the entire hotel, drifting up through the floors far above the lobby and coiling around the very skeleton of the old building as he clung to the lover that even his shattered memory could not part him from.

Ti amo. Ti amo. Ti amo.


"Herr Moretti departed in the early hours of this morning," Dreher said. "He took Feliciano with him, naturally. It has become apparent that there is a serious emotional mutation in Feliciano and it must be dealt with accordingly. It may be some months before Feliciano is of any use and so all national representatives be advised that economic dealings with Northern Italy will have to be dealt with manually until Feliciano is operational again."

He cleared his throat.

"Which brings me to my next point." His voice was very calm, cold, his East German accent wrapped thickly around his words. "As you saw, the only remaining economic representative for the German nation, Ludwig Beilschmidt, is dead. My team removed the body last night. This is, of course, a tragic state of affairs, particularly following the execution of Ludwig's brother Gilbert Beilschmidt in 1947. The reasons differ, naturally – Gilbert's existence was no longer justified following the total abolition of Prussia, whilst Ludwig's end came from, I am ashamed to admit, another emotional malfunction."

Dreher lifted a sheet of paper and scanned down it, mentally translating the German into English before speaking again.

"Herr Moretti and I both gave our statements to our teams last night and my operational head has compiled this report," he said. "Following discussion on the parts of Moretti and myself, we decided that the glitch in Feliciano must be dealt with as soon as possible, for not only did it entice him to show exceeding favouritism towards Ludwig, it also impeded upon Feliciano's ability to coalesce with other nations. The issue with Arthur Kirkland last night was not, according to Moretti, the first time that Feliciano had refused to have relations with another nation. Feliciano himself grew angered by this statement and proceeded to embrace Ludwig, arguing that there was no issue with his feelings and that he loved Ludwig and that Ludwig loved him in return – ah, this is according to Moretti, who provided translation since Feliciano made this admission in Italian. Moretti argued with him and pulled him away from Ludwig; Feliciano became aggressive and attempted to strike Moretti, at which Moretti defended himself by punching Feliciano to knock him to the floor. At this, Feliciano began to cry and Ludwig..." Dreher trailed off, seeming perplexed. "As I said, I can only chalk Ludwig's behaviour up to a serious emotional malfunction. I have never seen him behave in such a manner and conclude that it was a response which mimicked that of protection. He attacked Moretti, punching him several times, and then went for me when I attempted to stop him. Acting in defence of both of our persons, Moretti rightfully drew his gun and shot Ludwig, killing him instantly."

Dreher put down the sheet again, looking around at his silent audience.

"As you know, gentlemen," he added, speaking only to his fellow attendants, "self-safety is utmost in our training. These nations are hundreds of years old, several of them much more than that, and whilst their memories are repressed, they are nonetheless schooled in centuries of war and bloodshed. They are dangerous and we must not forget that. Our jobs are at the lethal frontlines of the global economy and I must stress that Herr Moretti acted entirely in the right manner."

There was applause from the attendants; and icy silence from the dangerous, angry nations in question.

"Lamentably, this is the last that I will convene with you," Dreher said, stilling their clapping with his hand. "It is unfortunate that all economic liaisons with Germany must now be done manually – I myself will be in charge of this but I shall be working from an office in Berlin and will no longer attend these meetings. I apologise for the inconvenience caused by the feigned emotional response in Ludwig towards Feliciano and vice versa – had Moretti and I dealt with the problem sooner, we might not be in this inopportune situation. Gentlemen, it has been my pleasure to work with you these thirteen years. I hope that you will not think too ill of me in my unconditional absence."

There was more applause; and somewhere in the midst of it, South Italy suddenly pitched forward in his seat and vomited onto the floor.

Hall's calculator went off just as they were seated in the car, ready to leave for the airport; he pulled it out of his jacket, muttering to himself. England wasn't looking at him, silent as he stared out of the window at the dreary street. He was shocked and angry and scared and disgusted, a jumble of sparking responses mirrored by just about every other nation in that room who had sat and listened to Dreher reel off how he and Moretti had "dealt with" the apparent serious problem existing between their charges.

Germany was dead and all Dreher could say was that he was sorry that he was going to be moving to an office in downtown Berlin.

There was a knock at the window, making England jump; he glanced up to see Clark outside, holding up his own calculator with America hovering behind him. Hall leaned across and opened the door.

"You're cutting it bloody close, Clark," he said sharply.

Clark shrugged.

"Hey, I just do what the damn device tells me, pal," he replied. "Got time for our boys to have a fond farewell or will you miss your flight? I can do it manually if you're short on time."

Hall sighed.

"No, I've already got to put through the data with North Italy last night," he said, getting out of the car. "It'll be easier for me to just have this done now so I don't have to worry about it. They can do it across the backseat."

"Kinky," America said drolly, ducking under Clark's arm and clambering in.

"Jesus, get the fuck on with it, Alfred," Clark sighed. He tossed the box of condoms at America's head and shut the car door. Barely a moment passed before he and Hall got into the driver and passenger's seats, Hall adjusting the mirror so that they could see them.

"Man, this is cramped," America said cheerfully, unbuttoning himself. "Hey, fellas, just so you know, the position's gonna be a little skewed back here. I can't put the same distance between us."

"Well, we don't have time to go back into the hotel," Hall barked, "so just do your best."

America gave him a sarcastic salute, getting himself prepped in record time and waiting for England to adjust his position underneath him.

"Ready?"

"I suppose," England said, doing his best to sound irritable. "Just hurry up. I want to go home."

America simply grinned at him, bracing himself against the window to get a good angle; the position was awkward and England felt his skull thud against the car door as America entered him—

But the moment he was in, the seat seemed to fall out beneath them and England's perception shuddered and then swung violently before settling. They were upright, still in the car but blessedly alone – and in the front seats instead of horizontal across the back.

"You wanna go home without saying goodbye?" America teased, leaning forward and folding his arms across the steering wheel.

England didn't look at him.

"Of course not," he replied quietly. "I'm sorry, I'm just... just rather..."

"Shaken up?" America sighed. "Tell me about it. I couldn't even sleep last night."

"Neither could I." England gave a snap of his fingers. "Like that. Just... like that, they killed him." He looked at America desperately. "We're nothing to them, Alfred – just expendable pawns. We make life easier for them but they can do without us if we become too much trouble. They've made that perfectly clear."

"Too much trouble." America leaned back again, fanning his fingers out over the curve of the steering wheel. "Is that even it?"

"W-well—"

"I don't think we're any trouble at all. We barely even exist, you know? They go on about us being dangerous, like they shot Ludwig because they felt threatened when he... jeez, understandably flipped out because he wanted to protect Feliciano, but... it just doesn't gel at all with what they said about Gilbert. They fuckin' shot him simply because they didn't have a use for him. He wasn't too much trouble – he just didn't have a place in the world anymore." America exhaled through his nose. "So they got rid of him."

England put his hands to his face and pressed himself back against the seat.

"Alfred, I don't know how much more of this I can take," he groaned. "It's been thirteen years. Who's to say that Ludwig didn't just... snap? That Feliciano last night... I don't know, that it wasn't just the last fucking straw? That's how I feel every time Hall so much as says my name – I want to rip his throat out but what would be the point?" He kneaded at his forehead, closing his eyes. "What would be the bloody point?"

"Are you scared?"

"I don't know." Lowering his hands again, England actually laughed. "I don't even fucking know. I just... want something, I don't—"

"An escape." America turned towards him, England guardedly opening his eyes to meet his gaze. "You want out of here. You want to just... go somewhere, anywhere – somewhere you can breathe."

"Mm." Those words washed around him, close and sticky inside the car like syrup seduction. "That would be lovely – because I'm going to go mad, Alfred. I don't think I can put up with this for much longer. I don't think any of us can."

"Hold on a little more, okay?" America reached over and pulled him into his grasp, cuddling him close. "I'm working on it, babe."

England sighed against him, settling into his strong arms.

"Don't do anything stupid," he muttered. "Please, Alfred."

"It's not stupid," America insisted. "Nothing could be more important." His fingertips slid across the leather horizon of the steering wheel. "I'm gonna get you out of here, Artie, I promise."


ARTHUR MILLER OR GTFO~

At almost 15,000 words, I'm sure you can see why I decided to separate my remaining word-vomit into two buckets. ...Which I know is a disgusting metaphor, lololol, but it's also an accurate one given my previous track record (I'm looking at you lot, O America, Pater Noster and (poor languishing unloved) Down Will Come Baby). I just don't know where all this stuff comes from, I plan for the thing to be a couple thousand words and then it's like JEEBUS HELLO NOVEL! D: I plan to get this thing finished SOON, hopefully in veeeery early October because you should see my hand-written list for pending/half-written/next-chapter-of-neglected-multi-chapter fics for Hetalia ALONE, it's like four miles long and last time I looked at it I even took a pen and scrawled WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF? across the page, so...

ANYWAY, thank you for reading! I hope you will come back for what will ACTUALLY BE THE FINAL PART instead of fifteen thousand words of my lies.

RR xXx