Here we go, a terribly short update. This consists parts 3-4 on the kink meme- please don't give up on me yet! Part 5 is in progress. :D


"I had a dream about you last night," Prussia said conversationally, albeit hesitantly, as he bandaged up England's back.

I know, he wanted to say, but the words felt dry in his mouth and he felt the shame and horror press insistently on his stomach, so he didn't. He was silent as Gilbert patched him up, shuddering at every touch but grateful that Prussia didn't bring up the cause of his injuries.

"It was fucking weird," Prussia complained. "You were in a dress, and we were freaking married. I mean, I get that you love my awesome- hell, everyone does, but I don't wanna be tied down to anyone, ever."

He laughed and England could sense the lie in it, but it was okay. He was keeping secrets too.

Prussia stood up and grabbed England's arm. "Alright, up you go. You look tired, so you can have my bed for today."

England shrugged his hand off roughly, and tottered his way to Gilbert's bed. He lowered himself gently, because he refused to collapse, and tugged the sheets (blue, with printed yellow chicks- endearing but silly) to his neck, Prussia watching him like a hawk.

He closed his eyes and waited for the nightmares to come.


Three weeks later, England was at his house again. He was still healing, but he tended his garden every day, despite the pain in his body. He refused to be bedridden, and he went about his business in the house as he usually did, albeit at a slower pace.

If the United Kingdom wants to garden, he thought viciously. He is going to garden, damn it.

He had unplugged his telephone, only leaving his mobile on in case of a national emergency; he had told his boss he was on holiday and was not to be disturbed for anything less than a terrorist attack. Of course, that left him open to calls and messages from the other nations, particularly the frog and the idiot, but he ignored and deleted them all except for Prussia's. Prussia was always welcome, if he came with beer.

Speaking of that... A loud rapping was heard against the door, and England hobbled over to answer it. His limp was getting much better, if he said so himself, and his numerous wounds had scabbed nicely. Only the bags under his eyes and his pale, drawn face indicated there was anything further bothering him.

"Good afternoon, Gilbert," he said cordially as he opened the door.

"Twelve beers, just for us!" Prussia roared as he breezed in from the doorway as if he owned the place. He was carrying two six packs and a Marks & Spencer tote bag. "But you only get two because you're a damn lightweight."

"What the-? We'll see about that," England muttered, pulling up two chairs at his dining table. "What've you got in that bag?"

Prussia snorted. "Wurst. Nicked it off West this morning, figured you might want something other than nuclear waste to eat."

"Fuck you," he said good-naturedly, taking the package that Prussia handed him and placing it in his refrigerator.

Two beers later he was feeling quite tipsy, roaring with laughter as Prussia chugged his fifth beer, and feeling better than he had ever felt since three days ago when Gilbert had brought more alcohol over.

His mobile rang loudly and he picked it up, not looking at the caller ID.

"Bugger off," he greeted in a pleasant tone. "I'm busy getting drunk off my arse."

"Arthur," a familiar voice said, and England felt his stomach drop away.

"What do you want, Francis?" he growled, for some reason unwilling to put down the phone just yet.

"Mon Dieu, have you any idea how worried I was to find you skipped an important meeting, and came back to find my guest gone? I thought you killed yourself!"

"That's impossible, you dimwit, and I hope you made up a satisfactory excuse, though with the brain power you just showed I doubt-"

"I told them."

England froze, eyes widened, fear bubbling in his heart. Prussia set down his beer can and stilled.

"What do you mean? There is nothing to tell," he hissed.

A sigh was heard from the other end. "I told them everything. Our dare, the dream, the injuries. They put the pieces together." There was a pause, in which they could only hear England's heavy breathing. "I am sorry," France said, something sad and deep in his tone that said he wasn't only apologising for having told. "I'm so sorry."

"Fuck you," was all England could say. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you-!"

"Arthur!" Prussia shouted, ripping the mobile away and ending the call. England collapsed back into his chair, visibly shaking, and Prussia hesitantly wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

"They know, they know, they know..."

"What was that about?"

England opened his mouth, but the words choked him, and he felt the familiar stirrings of fear and deep revulsion in his gut. "Just give me a minute," he gasped out.

"You don't have to tell me, man." Prussia's hand rubbed soothing circles on England's back, and Arthur wanted so badly to pull away, but he didn't.

"No, no, I should tell you. They already know. Fucking frog," England cursed, then buried his head reluctantly into Prussia's shoulder. He couldn't bear to make eye contact. "You deserve to know."

And England told him, wrapped in his arms at his dining table, as for the first time in years, he allowed himself to cry.


"He's with Gilbert," France said as he slowly put the phone down. "I heard his voice at the end."

"Gilbert?" America raised his head from studying the patterns on France's curtains. "What was he doing there?"

"I do not know," France said, expression pensive. "I just heard him shout Arthur's name and then the line was cut."

"Damn it!" America swore, standing up and shrugging on his bomber jacket. "Who knows what he could be doing t-"

"Alfred," France said sharply. "Do not be so hasty. I have known Gilbert for a long time-"

"What did he dream about, then? Maybe he-"

"And despite his denial," France raised his voice to a near shout. "He has always been irrevocably in love with Elizaveta. I have no doubt that in his dream, Arthur was a mere replacement."

It took a moment, but eventually America unclenched his hands and slumped back into his seat. "I feel like a monster," he admitted softly, burying his head in his arms.

France sighed. "We all do, I believe. But smothering him isn't going to help him at all. He needs to get back to normal, and protecting him will not be healthy in the long run."

"Maybe that's why he hates you," America said without thinking, realising he had hit a nerve when France suddenly stiffened. But at this point he couldn't care.

"I think I would know what he needs the most, as we have known each other for almost all our lives-"

"Sure explains why your deepest fantasy was of him being willing for once!" All of the anger, helplessness, and guilt that had been bottled up was pouring uncontrollably from America, directed at France with unforgiving harshness.

"Well I wasn't the one who was fucking him with a gun!"

America stood up, banging his fist against the table. "Well if you aren't gonna do anything, I am," he hissed, marching to the front door and slamming it behind him.

He had no idea where to start or how to do it, but he was brimming with determination. He just hoped he was enough of a hero to save Arthur.


Romano crossed himself as he knelt down in one of the back pews of the church, moving his lips in a prayer that would be almost soundless if not for the slight whisper of air that escaped him. He clutched an elaborate rosary in his hand- Murano glass, with carved roses, too beautiful for anyone to deserve holding.

"...save us from the fires of Hell, and lead all souls into Heaven, especially those most in need of Your mercy."

The whispered prayer bounced against the walls of the empty church, making him feel even more alone. He kept his head bowed, unwilling to look at the confessional beside him.

Someone seated themselves next to him, and even without looking, Romano knew who it was. And he knew he would not be interrupted while praying, however much a talk was needed. So he prayed the complete fifteen decades instead of five, and the Loreto litanies when he heard his neighbour shift in impatience.

"Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us."

Soon he could not avoid it any longer, and sighed, crossed himself, and sat down with aching knees.

"What do you want, Antonio?"

It took a while for the Spaniard to answer, and Romano had just about given up when he spoke suddenly. "Your churches are very beautiful, little Lovino."

"That's what you wanted to talk about?" Romano hissed, almost swearing but remembering he was in a holy place and catching himself in time. He was mildly relieved Spain had not brought up more sensitive topics, but curiously disappointed.

"It's a nice topic," Spain replied blandly. "I like it."

They sat in silence for a few moments, looking up at the altar with pensive expressions. Romano tried to clear his head, to be as dreamy as glassy-eyed Spain looked, but his gaze kept drifting to the confessional, hands subconsciously rubbing at imaginary rope burns.

It was Spain who broke the quiet again, but it was wordless, just a shifting of position and the creak of old wood. Romano couldn't stand it anymore.

"I am a sinner," he whispered under his breath, not knowing whether he wanted to be heard or not.

Spain cocked his head. "How so?"

"I can't pray properly, I can't sleep without wondering what I'm going to dream about, I can't think without remembering Arthur and what I did to him, what I made him do-" he choked a little, then fell quiet for a minute. "I- I can't even bring myself to go to confession."

Spain made a soft, indistinct sound. "I used to live through my friars," he said, leaning back. "They'd send me letters from the colonies, telling me stories and news and how they were running the government. Sometimes I'd think I was a friar myself!" He gave a little laugh, and Romano stared at him, recognising the invitation but unwilling to believe it. "My little Lovino, surely you can talk to me?"

The proverbial gauntlet had been thrown, and Romano found himself tempted by the challenge, tempted to give in and tell. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. "My sins are for God only to judge," he said harshly.

Spain's smile slipped a little. "Then," he heaved a great sigh. "I'll leave you to judge mine."

"No, you idiot-" But Romano had already perked up a little, listening intently from morbid curiosity, even as he thought it wasn't right to divulge this story.

"You remember the days when I was a conqueror of nations- a conquistador, yes?" Spain began, tone light and airy. "Ah, those were fine days. It's much more peaceful now, but sometimes I miss the excitement. I took care of so many cute little colonies, helped them grow the proper way, held so much power... Of all that, I miss the power I had over them. But not you, Lovino, I like us as we are now."

Romano shoved his hand away, willing the redness in his cheeks to subside.

"But I had many enemies," Spain continued. "Arthur and Catalina, they were allies for a long time, both were my enemies. I used to dream often that I would fight against them and win, that their power would be mine for the taking."

"So what you really dreamt..."

"Holding Arthur at swordpoint and forcing him to give me everything." Spain's eyes were bright with something that Romano distantly recalled, something that sent shivers down his spine but broke his heart with pity.

A sound made them turn their heads, and they saw a priest cast a glance at them, entering the confessional and waiting. Romano paled and stood, backing away, shoving his rosary into Spain's hands.

"I-I need to leave. There's something I forgot to do. Use that, and you'd better give it back to me tomorrow, or else."

Spain simply nodded, and Romano all but ran to the door of the church, his heart beating rapidly with fear and self-loathing. But he turned his head, and could vaguely hear a voice, broken and starved for mercy.

"Padre Nuestro, que estás en el cielo. Santificado sea tu nombre..."

Despite the pounding in his heart and the tremble in his fingers, Romano smiled. There was still hope.