Crystal's Notes: Heeeere's chapter 2! xD I've found it's a whole lot easier to update when I have shorter chapters…ha, wonder why that is? xD (Both MCS and GMEO have around 10 pages per chapter; this one has about half of that). But alas. xD

AnarchySoul is not with us today, because she's on vacation all week. xD Lucky duck. But I got her permission to go ahead and post this chapter, so here it is. xD

In other matters, thank you to our three reviewers, an anonymous person, Anumi, and LoveGaara06 (which, you have a similar story? 8D Man, I'm going to have to check it out!). Your words and encouragement are part of what's keeping this story going. X3 You have our deepest thanks. (heart heart)

Also, to answer your question, Anumi, we haven't any solid pairings yet. xD I'll have to discuss that with AnarchySoul. But of course, there will be a bit of FACE family – just a bit. xD But that doesn't mean there will be FrUK...it's all tentative. xD We'll have to see.

Thanks so much for reading, and here is your next chapter!

Close every door to me
Hide all the world from me
Bar all the windows and shut out the light
Do what you want with me
Hate me and laugh at me
Darken my daytime and torture my night

"...how is he?"

It was the question the Canadian had feared all morning, purple eyes continuously glancing away from his paperwork and to the black phone resting on the corner of his desk. He always had to stop, to tell himself that Arthur would call whenever he was done visiting Alfred, and for sure, he was the first person he would notify about their favorite American's condition - he had the Englishman's word for that.

But that hadn't made the waiting period any easier to withstand.

Still, as he swallowed, Matthew Williams found himself clenching the phone a little too tightly as he waited for his former step-father figure's answer. He's taking too long, was his first thought, laced with panic and fear. Something must be terribly wrong with him, eh –

" – it...wasn't him I spoke with, Matthew."

Oh. So it had been the Other...the Other Alfred...in control today...

The blonde Canadian swallowed again, purple eyes glancing away at the opposite wall, although not truly fixed on any point. "Well, still, eh! How did he look? Were there any new scars? He's not in pain, is he...?"

There was a soft, tired sigh from the other end. "Not that I saw, although that isn't saying much. He was covered in those grey pajamas they call psychiatric garments. He looked fine as far as I could tell, although they don't let him use his glasses – for safety purposes, I imagine, although I can't figure out how one could kill themselves with those..."

"Eh..." Canada offered weakly. "...ask Ivan. I bet there are ways."

The United Kingdom gave a soft chuckle in response. But after a moment of silence had passed, Matthew found himself speaking up again, if only to keep the conversation going so he could find out more about his brother's condition. "And...and what about the land itself? How...how is the drought over there?"

A heavy sigh. Instantly, Canada's heart plummeted at the sound of it, fearing the worst. The other blonde's words didn't help the situation either. "It's bad, Matthew. The people are starving, it's dry and humid to the point of getting frustrated every five seconds. There's rumors of a rebellion beginning to stir in the South again." A small pause, and then a whisper of confidentiality. "My theory is that's what's strengthening him."

Him – not Alfred. Not their dear, dear Alfred, but the Other one. The one trying to escape. The one becoming a disease.

Canada closed his violet eyes briefly, as if wincing – but not that the nation on the other end of the line could see. "Is there still nothing we can do…?"

They had tried. Oh, how hard they tried to convince the current President to let them help. And although, yes, the rest of the world was suffering economically from the struggles of the United States of America and the drought and famine that plagued it – and even though Canada himself was struggling with the same problem although on a much, much lighter scale – they were still dying to pitch in. The United Nations had been knocking on the door to the White House for such permission to lend a hand, sometimes banging on it when the need was growing more desperate, but still no grace had been given.

"The United States," the President had said, "is not a third-world country needing aid. We are much more than capable of providing for ourselves, and although we thank the United Nations for their offers, from this day forth, we politely decline any attempts at help. We aren't dying."

It was the stupidest, most arrogant move a political leader could make. Not only had it left many sour impressions onto the other nations who had been, shockingly enough for some of them, willing to lend a hand, it had hurt the Americans themselves, who had been looking forward to the promising aid the United Nations always pledged to give – no matter what 'good ol' American pride' said, according to Mr. President.

Arthur sighed. "I'm afraid, Matthew, that today both the Senate and the House of Representatives has somehow voted to back the President's case. They are blockading their own shores."

"W-what about my borders…?"

"Matthew."

It had been a vain question, and the Canadian knew it. Wincing again, the young man leaned over his deskwork, elbows propping themselves up on its maple-wood surface, even as he kept the phone close to his ear. "Y-yeah…I guess…if they're cutting off the rest of the world 'across the pond'…then they would also shut themselves away from even their neighbors, eh…"

"Unfortunately, Americans are thorough about this kind of thing." The United Kingdom sighed heavily on the other end, his breath coming in fuzzy and blurred from the close proximity from which his mouth must have been to the phone. "They mean it when they declare something."

And no one would know better than him.

Matthew resisted the urge to pound his desk with a fisted hand, veins pumping full of righteous anger throughout his bloodstream. Instead, he resorted to gritting his teeth. But still, his voice came out as hardly more than a timid whisper, laced delicately with only a lilting rage. "Why, eh? Why are they so willing to do this to themselves? To their people? To Alfred?" To my brother?

It took a moment for the United Kingdom to answer, and when he did, it was with surprising honesty. "I haven't the slightest, my boy. Pride, as we nations all know, can be a nasty enemy to overcome. But to hold on to it to such an extent that you are willing to let your people suffer..."

Matthew's eyes, during his former step-father figure's pause, drifted to the window. Looking out, he could see the bright, cloudless sky (a common sight during this season of drought), and the pale grass, shriveled and beginning to die from the lack of water. But it was nothing like what it was in his brother's country, where the land was slowly being turned into a desert; they had been suffering for years from this sudden lack of rain, and only now, once their food was slowly beginning to run out even after being placed on rations, they were feeling the consequences.

And then the drought had started spreading north.

The Canadian found himself speaking before he even knew what he was saying. "We're not gonna give up on him, eh, are we, Dad...?"

Dad. It had been a long time since he called the United Kingdom that; an even longer time to begin calling him that in the first place, especially after the Seven Year's War. But in this day and age, when things were looking bleak, he found it...okay, at least, to find himself reverting back to a childish sense of dependency, especially when looking for hope.

The other blonde answered calmly and confidently, no trace of doubt in his accented voice. "No, Matthew. We won't." A small pause, and then a slight chuckle, one that somehow warmed the Canadian's insides. "It will take a lot more than a simple blockade to stop us from trying to help family."

Family.

A smirk stretched onto Canada's face even as the island nation hurriedly added, "But don't tell Alfred I said that. I wouldn't hear the end of it for a century." Or perhaps longer, knowing the eccentric young man.

But Matthew Williams only smiled, leaning back in his chair casually. "Oh, don't worry, eh. I won't tell him..."

...yet.

Just give me a number
Instead of my name
Forget all about me
And let me decay

Sleep was the only time they were equals. When they could both stand, could both talk, could both think, and neither had control of the body. When they were safe to discuss, to fight, or to simply bicker. When they could see each other, look at one another and see a mirror, yet know they were entirely different.

And it was the only time when the outside world was safe from them.

But this time, the Other was not happy. It would not be a restful sleep this night, Alfred knew, when his counterpart stomped up to him, grabbed the front of his shirt (in Dreamland, both of them wore the same grey-colored garb that they wore in real life) and hoisted him up to eye-level, bare blue eyes glaring into his own fiercely.

And he knew why. The tough part was keeping himself from smiling even as the Other shouted into his face, "Why? Why can't I ever win, even when I'm in control? Even when you do nothing?"

The Real laughed, not at all daunted by the anger coursing through his Other's eyes. He had seen, been forced to watch everything helplessly, as the conversation with his former father figure had commenced. But he certainly had been surprisingly happy with the results. "Because I'm the winner, and you're the loser. Face it; it's always gonna be that way."

"Lies!"

Thrown to the side, Alfred braced himself for the pain he knew was coming. And sure enough, as soon as he rolled over, the Confederate was there, grabbing the front of his shirt again and lifting his upper torso up while his other fist was raised, ready for a strike. But then, suddenly – and without warning – the Other paused. Something strange passed through his eyes, and for a pure minute, he froze, not moving an entire muscle, as he worked out whatever it was he was thinking.

But this...confused the Real. It had never happened before.

Still, he couldn't pass up the opportunity to annoy his Other. With the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a grin, he sneered, "What, finally get a conscience?"

Blue eyes snapped to his identical ones, fire burning behind them. But instead of resuming the usual routine of beating his counterpart senseless, slowly, a smirk began to spread onto the Confederate's features – a very pleased, a very...satisfied smile that unnerved Alfred more than he would care to admit – and with surprising care, he lowered the Real back down to the floor, hand still fisted, but returning to his side as he leaned over the young man. Not answering the question, he decided to ask one of his own. "How long have we been playing this game, Union?"

Alfred frowned carefully. "I've never really considered it a game."

"Ah, but you have." There was something strange in the Other's voice as he spoke. A purr that was certainly never there before – except for when he was certainly confident about something. "After all, you keep referring to us as 'winners' and 'losers,' don't you?"

"Eh, that's an old habit." A dismissive comment, accompanied by a roll of bright blue eyes. "I've always done that. Doesn't mean – "

" – all the same." The grin never left that face hovering above his own. "It's all the same, Union. But y'know, I've just realized something...something that I should have realized long, long ago, and started doing before I began to run myself in circles."

Confused, the Real moved to try and get out from under his Other, but a sudden hand on his shoulder, pressing him down, made him involuntarily freeze as the Confederate went on. "No matter how many times I cause you pain here, in our little world, your spirit is never broken. You're still smug, you're still strong, you're still...you."

That made Alfred grin, despite the fact he was being held immobile. "The winner."

A trace of a scowl flickered quickly across the Other's face, but he immediately grinned again, clearing his throat. "Yes...the 'winner,'" he spat. "But a sudden thought just occurred to me, and now...now I think it's time to change the rules, just a little bit, of this game we play."

"What do you mean?" The question was asked carefully, guardedly, accompanied by a heavy frown, caution lining every muscle in the Real's form.

"The only way to get to you, so I see now, Union, is through the outside world. So let's see how long you can last once your starving people begin to rebel, and you're stuck deep inside, not able to do anything. And when, most importantly, those closest to you are hurt and suffering...because of you."

Blue eyes narrowed, confusion still found deep within the pools, but before Alfred could do or say anything, the hand that was fisted was suddenly brought to his chest, laid over his heart, as the index finger spontaneously began tapping an unknown rhythm. "Let's see how long you can last as I cause you all sorts of new pain, Union." The grin spread wider. "All sorts of new pain..."

The hand over his heart never left.

Close every door to me
Keep those I love from me

- "Close Every Door" from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat