And so begins Chapter 2. Enjoy! (I dun feel like writing a lot right now...)

Disclaimer: Me no own Hetalia. Or the cast. I'd make Canada less invisible if I did.

Chapter 2

The hurt set in like infection. It started in his chest, above his heart, and then it spread throughout his body. And with the sadness came the sickness. He was listless and dead in his own skin. He was disgusted with his current life. He hated himself. He hated everything. He missed what he had lost.

His allies noted the changes in him but could not decide what distressed him. Feliciano watched his elder brother's languid movements painfully, feeling the loss himself but not knowing what he was missing.

"Francis," Ludwig said one day, "what ails you? You're not yourself."

"I'm just under the weather," he replied impassively.

Each time someone asked after him: "I caught a cold of some sort."

"You seem so unhappy," Romano stated with true concern, "Can I be of any assistance?"

"I'm just a little sick," he said, feeling the knots in his stomach tighten agonizingly, "I will be fine in a while."

"Are you lying to me?" Feliciano cried, "You look awful!" And he would merely shake his head.

"I'm fine. Just a little under the weather." Antonio knew better, as did Arthur. Antonio wouldn't bring up the subject, but Arthur knew he was the cause. And although he would rather have not cared about the pathetic Frenchman's feelings, he felt extremely guilty. But he refused to return the territory. Canada was his land now. Francis had no right to claim the young territory anymore. He lost it. Canada was under English rule now.

But Arthur could feel the regret welling up in his chest. Was it really that wrong? He looked over, and Francis was positioned at the picture window in the conference hall, his eyes blank, yet bitter. His hands were heavy on the windowsill. He blinked; it was slow, delayed. The Brit's eyes worked over the heavy, tired way the man's body stood. His pale lips were parted and he exhaled, but it was a harsh, pained sound so unlike his usual polite silence. He jolted; looked around. Then he sighed, stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his pants and slowly made his way out of the room. Arthur followed, but for no reason. He felt there was a pull dragging him after the Frenchmen.

Pale eyes lifted from the floor, and the man turned around entirely.

"Why are you following me, Monsieur?" he asked sharply, though it lost a considerable amount of bite. "Haven't you ruined me enough!" Arthur took a step back, lifting his hands in a non-threatening gesture.

"I just wanted to ask how you were feeling," Arthur lied, "I heard you were sick-"

"You know damn well that I'm not sick," Francis snapped, but his voice trembled, "You know what you did, you bastard."

"I honestly don't know-" Arthur began.

"Don't lie!" Francis roared. His face crumpled just slightly, and he bit his lower lip before turning. "You know how you ruined his life. I hope you would at least... at least take care of him." He stalked away without another word, leaving his rival country standing there. The Englishman hung his head and guilt overtook him. What had he done?


I curled up on my bed and let out a shaky breath. Damn that Arthur, I thought miserably, damn him! The tears began to flow, down the bridge of my nose, down my cheek and onto my sheets where the liquid soaked in. If I felt this terrible, how was Mathieu holding up? Was he upset? Was he scared? I needed desperately to see him. I needed to enfold him in my arms and tell him everything was okay, and I needed to smell the scent of evergreen on his skin and feel the warmth of his body.

"Damn him," I whispered, "Damn him to hell!" Mon cher, mon enfant...*

"Tu as pris mon enfant**," I whimpered, trembling. I felt like an addict suffering from the after-tremors of quitting. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt my heart throbbing violently in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Francis!" There was knocking at the door. I looked up.

"Who is it?" I asked wearily.

"It's me, Antonio," they answered, "Can I come in?" I nodded, sighing.

"Yes. Come in." I rolled over and faced toward the window as he slowly opened the door.

"Close the door after you," I said tiredly.

"Are you alright?" he asked me softly. I felt him sit on the edge of my bed and lay a hand on me lightly. I flinched.

"Yes," I lied, "I'm fine." I could feel him studying the sliver of my face that he could see.

"You've been crying," he stated gently.

"Don't put it in the past tense," I begged faintly, "It would be a lie, anyway..." He gently stroked my side.

"What's wrong, Francis? I know you're not sick... what happened?" I took a shaky breath inward. When I considered telling him, I saw his face. So young. I choked back tears that threatened to spill over my lower lids, and a low sound caught in my throat. He looked over at my face, and I winced as he reached down and brushed away a tear that was about to run down my cheek.

"Francis... we've been allies for years. It hurts to see you like this. Please, if I can help, tell me."

"I couldn't ask you to go in again," I whispered, and new tears began to flow. I tried to withhold my sobs, but they burst out and racked my body in violent tremors. Spain took hold of me and rubbed my back gently as I cried.

"Damn him!" I wailed, "Damn that bastard to hell!"

"Who's him?" Antonio asked unobtrusively. I ignored him unintentionally and gripped his clothing tighter in my fists.

"He took my child! That heartless bastard took him and treats him so badly! My poor child!"

"Matthew?" he asked, and I howled louder, breaking off in French.

"Is it Arthur? Are you upset about the last war?" he asked. I looked up, certain I looked like a madman with my red eyes and messy hair.

"Yes! That bastard Arthur took him... My child, my precious... he took my Mathieu from me, Antonio! He took him away and I can't get him back!" Antonio wiped my eyes like a father.

"Is he taking care of him?" Antonio asked softly, brushing the wet hair from my cheek.

"That's the problem, Antonio," I whimpered, "He's not. He doesn't care about Mathieu... his damn colony America… he mocks Mathieu, and Arthur does nothing! Mathieu is all alone... It's all my fault," I concluded miserably, hanging my head, "I wasn't strong enough to protect him... I left him to die..."

"It's not your fault," he said gently, rubbing my back, "You couldn't help it."

"I should have backed off. I challenged Arthur... I was a fool, and I... it's my fault, Antonio. I can't even fix it, either!" I released him and pushed away, wiping my puffy eyes on my sleeves. He looked sympathetic; it made me angry.

"Francis-"

"You don't understand, do you!" I snapped, my lip curling up to bare my teeth, "You didn't have a colony-"

"I lost a lot of land too, Francis!" he retorted, taking me by the wrist. He immediately calmed and looked down at my palm. "I understand your anger, Francis. I understand your frustration. I... I don't know how to help you, amigo, but you know I would go to the ends of the earth to help you."

"I'm going to kill him," I snarled, "I'm going to kill Arthur, and take Mathieu back."

"Don't say such things," Antonio pleaded, "You don't mean them."

"I do!" I roared, feeling fresh tears form, "I mean it all!"

"You don't," he repeated, "You would feel guilty." I knew he was right; weakly, I crumpled. I drew my legs up to my chest and rested my forehead on my knees.

"You're right," I murmured, "As always."

"Let me talk to him," he said, "I'll talk to Arthur and see if he will relinquish Matthew for you."

"He won't," I whimpered, "He wants to see me suffer."

"I'll persuade him for you," Antonio said gently, "I'll have Matthew returned to you."

"And if he won't?" I asked hoarsely, looking up at him. He shook his head with a gentle smile.

"He will. I promise." I shook my head also, but with a different meaning.

"I pray you are right," I whispered, "I don't know how much more of this I can endure... I'm dying inside, Antonio. I can feel it." He looked into my eyes.

"I know, Francis. I can see it." He bowed and took his leave, and I collapsed onto my bed and broke down in fresh sobs.


"I saw your father today," Arthur spat, and I sat up in a hurry.

"Francis?"

"He wanted to know... how I was treating you," he said, turning away. I stared at that mop of blonde hair hatefully.

"Why don't you just return me to him! You don't even want me!"

"I need you as proof!" he snapped, turning. Hate and tears, all at once.

"Of what!" my voice cracked; I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.

"Of... of my victory over Francis," he admitted softly.

"Everyone knows," I whispered, drawing my legs up to my chest, "Everyone knows what happened. You don't need proof." I swallowed down my tears. "Does... does he miss me?"

"Yes. He does." My heart lifted at his words. He took a few steps.

"He misses you very much. He really cares about you."

"Can... Can I see him?"

"No!" he turned around sharply. "Why would you think that I would let him come here? He would try to take you back!"

"You don't care about me anyway! What would be the difference!" I shouted, "Just because I wouldn't be suffering-!"

"You'll hold your tongue when you're addressing me, you cur!" he snapped, "I could slaughter you with ease! I only keep you for Francis!" He stopped, as if he had said too much.

"Why for him?" I asked weakly.

"That's none of your concern," he said bitterly.

"I want to know," I whispered, "You won't even let me see him... he's my father, and you won't even let me see him! You can at least tell me why you haven't killed me!" He looked furious for a moment. Then his face melted into a weakened state. He took a seat in a large recliner. Francis... my father, he helped me pick that chair. It stung to see that man sitting in my father's chair.

"Do you really want to know," he asked dully, folding his legs.

"Yes," I said softly, "Please." He sighed heavily.

"I've... I've always admired Francis. There's just... he's so confident, he so handsome and so genial... there's just an aura about him that I envy."

"You... you like him," I said softly, "Don't you?"

"..." he looked up, and his green eyes were misty and pained. "Yes. I do."

"Then why do you fight with him?" I asked, holding my knees tighter, "Why don't you just tell him?"

"Because I fear he doesn't share my feelings," Arthur said softly, "I'm terrified of rejection."

"But you can't be sure unless you try, right?" I asked.

"Why am I even telling you this?" he asked, "Bloody hell... but you remind me so much of your father..."

"It's been so long... I don't even know if I can remember him that well..." I wiped my eyes. He stared at me long and hard.

"If you're trying to guilt me into letting you see Francis, you're too late," he said harshly, "Francis himself already made me feel lower than dirt." I wiped my eyes again.

"Please... I know you're not heartless, just... let me see my dad again... Just once," I whispered. He stood up.

"Why? Why should I!"

"I thought you cared about Francis!"

"I'm not willing to just hand you back to my rival!" he snapped, "Even if I have feelings for him!"

"Please..." I slid my feet down onto the carpet. "Please, Arthur... please... He's my dad..." And Arthur just stood up.

"Your sentimentality breaks my heart," he murmured, "But I can't. Good day." He exited without another word, and I found my polar bear (a gift from Francis when I was still young), clutched it to my chest, and sobbed.


Aw… I feel bad when I write sad things… Plus my POV keeps changing. I'm sorry if it's confusing... :'( You like? Yes? No? R&R please! But I'm not a beggar. So I'll ask nicely and hope you find in your heart to leave me a little something. 'Kay?

TRAAAAAAAANSLAAAAAATIONS~!

* Mon cher, mon enfant- my dear, my child

** Tu as pris mon enfant...- You took my child...