Sup, guys? How's life been treating ya?

IMPORTANT CRAP

In all honesty, the only reason this fic is being continued is because of I am Sweden, the ONLY reviewer of the last chapter.

So thank her for the fact that there's a second chapter : )

And I'm going to sound like a dick right now, but guys, I need at least three reviews for there to be a third chapter. (that's not an unreasonable request, hell, just leave a note saying "nice fic" or "this sucks" and I'll be happy. Takes two seconds)

But yeah, enough of that shit.

LESS IMPORTANT CRAP

Warnings/Notes

-fem!Italy and fem!Canada. because the hetalia-verse has a suspicious lack of female characters. (HMMM I WONDER WHY *coughyaoicough*)

-possible ooc. I've never written some of these characters before.

-SO. MUCH. MOTHERFUCKING. DIALOGUE.

-I guess….if you put your slash goggles on…FrUk? But not really (I read too much slash….)

Here's the second chapter of Wish and Price.

Enjoy~

Chapter 2: Curious and curiouser.

!#$%^&*()!#$%^&*(

He wakes up, and the bar is in flames.

)*##$^((%#$%^&*(&%$

Fire. Everywhere. The bar is in disarray, chairs and tables knocked over, people screaming, searching for each other, stumbling over themselves to get out the door. Flames flicker, casting shadows and blowing smoke in every which way. The various alcohols carefully lined up behind the bars are cracked and smashed, blowing up in blazes, sending little waves of heat into the conflagration. The smoke obscures nearly everything, and makes it hard to breathe. Arthur is stunned. Oh God, oh God, oh God, what's happening? What's going on? How do I get out of here? Of all the dangerous stunts he's pulled; Arthur's never been in a fire before. Oh God he's gonna die, he's gonna die, he's gonna die.

The fire seems to be getting larger, and the heat feels like it's blistering his skin off. An escaping woman knocks him off the seat he's standing in as she shouts to someone across the room in desperation. Arthur lurches to his feet, and sticks a handkerchief over his nose, coughing. Where's the bloody exit? Eyes stinging, he gazes desperately into the smoke. He can't see anything. White smoke. There is pandemonium everywhere and he can't find the goddamn door in the smog. His head pounds with the combined effects of rum and sheer terror and adrenaline. It gets hotter. He needs to find that door. He is not going to die here.

A sudden gust of wind makes the flames shiver, and the smog and fire is pushed back and a narrow corridor of clear, not burning space that leads to what looks like the rear entrance of the bar. If the situation had been less desperate, he would have been amazed by the phenomenon, but there is no time. He stumbles into a shaky run, and practically flies out the door, wind whistling around him, adrenaline surging through his blood. Saved.

Arthur stops two blocks away, panting, and stares at the fiery building. The top floor of the places has collapsed on itself and the whole place is a burning ruin. Pedestrians gawk at the sight, and some members of the Sun Guard are rushing to put out the fire. He shivers. After being in what practically amounted to a furnace, the winter night's chill is even worse than earlier. He turns and jogs away, noticing with the corner of his mind that the wind and light snow are swirling around more than usual. That's enough adventure for one night. He wonders how the flames parted for him. It is a troubling event. He should be dead now, but he isn't. And flames aren't supposed to do that.

Home, and a cup of tea, sound absolutely fantastic right now.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Between the metal-workers district and University, on a wide cobblestone street, is a shop known by the name of Williams' Clockwork and Repairs. Above this shop, which is not owned by anyone named Williams, is a modest apartment; the home of three young men (though one is often away) and one young woman, and some miscellaneous other visitors.. The apartment is about the average size, does not always have hot water, and goes through cycles of clean-slovenly depending on the moon, tides, and whether or not anyone feels like cleaning. Despite these faults, the apartment is home, tastefully furnished and with brightly lit rooms.

Francis is not worried about Arthur. Not at all. He is not annoyed or worried about the fact that it is two-thirty in the morning and Arthur has not even bothered to use a public telephone to tell them that he will be out late. Francis hates the boy (they are nearly the same age, but Arthur will forever be the boy), and he could not care less that Arthur is not home.

"You know, if you're that worried about him, then why don't you go looking for him?"

A bored question-statement from the self-invited visitor lying across the couch.

"I'm not worried. That eyebrowed monstrosity can find his own way home. And why are you still here, Gilbert? Surely you have someplace to be at this hour."

Gilbert smirks, with a touch of irony and looks over at Francis. The blond man is leaning against a wall, and looking out the window every few minutes, as if his eyesight would make Arthur appear.

"Actually, I don't. Hotel rooms are sort of unawesome, and if I stay in them too long their unawesome boringness rubs off on me."

Francis snorts, and glances out the window (again).

"That is your own fault, Gilbert. False deaths tend to leave you homeless. "

"Hey! I had my reasons!"

"I'm sure you did, and perhaps one day you will explain to me why in the name of all that is holy you needed Antonio and me to "kill" you, anyway."

"One day, maybe, but anywa-Yargh!"

The door suddenly opens with a slam!, letting a gust of absolutely freezing wind and snowflakes into the warm-ish living room. Francis jumps, and stares at the figure in the doorway. Gilbert falls off the couch. Arthur steps inside neatly, and closes the door.

"Well, Francis? Aren't you going to say hello, instead of just gawking like the frog you are? And why on earth is Gilbert here?"

Arthur's voice is raspy and cracked. He is covered in soot, and his hair is tousled and messy. Despite that, he seems perfectly composed-except for the slight fact that his hands are shaking. He disappears into the kitchen, and Francis follows him. Francis sits down at the table, crosses his arms, and watches Arthur make a cup of tea.

"You are covered in ash. And your shirt is singed. Care to explain?"

"There was a fire at the bar, Francis. Where are the twins? And why is Gilbert here?"

"I don't know why he's here. Alfred is at work, and Mattie is sleeping. Stop changing the subject. What happened?"

"…Nothing. You would not believe me if I told you."
Francis arches an eyebrow, and notices a sudden breeze whipping around the kitchen. Strange.

"Oh? You think so highly of me, cher."

Arthur scowls, and looks down at his tea.

"Stop being sarcastic, Francis. It doesn't suit you. "

"Then explain to me why you are covered in ash and your hands are shaking."

Arthur looks up, and glares at him, the same glare that made men twice his size wither in fear. Francis stares back, impassive, eyebrow arched. (In the living room Gilbert hides behind the sofa, eavesdropping.)

Arthur looks away, and sets the cup of tea down on the worn wooden table. He frowns, and stirs it thoughtfully.

"I should be dead right now. I mean, I was in the absolute middle of the bar and I couldn't see the door-there was smoke everywhere. It was on fire. I thought I was going to die-and I was scared out of my bloody mind-when the path suddenly cleared. It was practically supernatural. Smoke just parted into this straight path. Weird as hell."

"Are you sure you were not imagining it?"

Arthur glares, again.

"Bloody Fucking Positive. I should have died there, from smoke inhalation, if nothing else. It was like magic."

Francis quirks a slight smile. Magic is a thing of ancient histories, not a modern practice. Arthur knows this quite well; after all, he teaches classes about the old theoretical magicks.

"Very well then, and if that was magic, were you the mage?"

"Who knows. Maybe that guy I talked to before passing out gave me magic powers. "

"Sarcasm does not suit you either, boy."

"Oh fuck off."

Arthur finishes his tea, and goes to wash the soot off. Francis puts the cup in the sink, and rinses it off with some water. He walks out of the kitchen, intent on getting some sleep.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

Arthur pauses. There is an albino man blocking the doorway of the bathroom, a thoughtful frown plastered on his face. Both "thoughtful" and "frowns" are not words often associated with this albino man, who proceeds to ask a question.

"You said you spoke to a man in the bar?"

"Yes, your point being?"

"What did he look like?"

"I don't remember all that well. He was tall, and had purple eyes-I think."

"Did he say anything…strange, to you?

"Gilbert, why the hell does this matter?"

"Just answer the question!"

Arthurs eyebrows arch in surprise; he has never seen Gilbert so serious, red eyes narrowed and mouth set in a frown.

"Well, he said something about my greatest wish? And something about flowers? I don't remember, really."

Gilbert laughs, suddenly.

"Well, we're all fucked, aren't we?"

He walks away, hands stuck in pockets, leaving Arthur confused and irritated in the doorway. What on earth was that about?

As he turns on the shower he hears the slam of the front door.

There was more, but it all got erased. Cause my computer hates me. So….enjoy?