The car ride had been more tedious than was certainly legal in any city, any nation, or any continent. Partially because Feliciano had slept the entire trip, but mostly because of Gilbert's silence. Gilbert was never silent. He could pull off the occasional relative quiet, which was his normal volume lowered by half a decibel, but that only happened when he made a conscious effort. Otherwise, he slept-talked, snored, sang along to his i-pod, mumbled, whistled, hummed, tapped, etc., etc. He was only silent when rendered unconscious or absolutely overwhelmed by something. The former occurred at least twice over the course of these meetings (courtesy of Erszebet's "little friend"), the latter only once as far as Ludwig could recall—1932, the dissolution of Prussia.

Currently, the self-proclaimed "Condensation of Pure Awesome" was sitting in the back of the Volkswagon, his forehead pressed against the glass. The only indication that he was alive were his hands: one lightly fiddling with his dogtags, the other balled into a loose fist, bouncing on his knees for two beats before either retaining its shape, vaguely unfolding, or bending out his index and pointer finger.

"Rock, paper, scissors…"

"Ha! Rock trumps paper, ja?"

"I don't think you fully understand the meaning of this game…"

Ludwig had gotten so used to shis beloved/s Feliciano's activity, that he found he was getting bored with this peace. So desperate was he, that he nearly struck up a conversation with his brother, but stopped when he saw the buds tucked into his ears.

"I understand that I am kicking your ass thoroughly. Now man up and play me again."

"Rock, paper, scissors… what the hell is that?"

"This, darling, is a tank, and I believe that it trumps everything."

Say you're a German. You've been driving for nearly three hours with an Italian next to you and a Prussian behind you. Normally, you this is hell, which you have always believed is very noisy. Now you know it is silent. Always.

"A TANK?"

"Ja, it trumps everything…"

"Nein! Hilda, we don't use tanks in this game! Tanks don't trump everything!"

"Fine, fine…"

"That's what Holy Hand-grenades do."

Now, you are nearing that building that you have called "Hell" for so long, but now it is heaven. And heaven is wonderful. It is noisy, messy, and people will talk to you. They will ask silly questions, insult you, etc., etc. And now you're there, and so glad you murmur a prayer and bring your head to the wheel, hit the horn, and make both Prussian and Italian bounce back into consciousness, cursing in their respective languages.

It was highly probable that Gilbert's presence had been acknowledged by one of the hundreds of Nations present in the hotel ballroom. Normally, he'd jump at such recognition, gloating and singing his praises, but not today. Today, his mind was set to the predatory state he discovered during his time with Russia—a state when all that is perceivable to the senses is every trait associated with the target. Granted, at the time, the target at the time was to be avoided at all costs. Now, he was tracking; tracking the scent of maple, the whisper-thin voice, the slightest glimpse of red sweater, gold hair…

"Mr. Prussia? Why are you smelling the wall?"

And in the eloquent words of sweet poetry, he responded, "Um."

Matt. Looking at him. Looking up, sweet confusion dominating his expression.

"Um."

I missed you. I was looking for you. I wanted to see you.

"… It's awesome. That's why."

Awkward shuffling of the feet. Clearing of the throat. The usual.

As Matt quickly made his way to his seat, Brandenburg whispered, "Is that him?"

"Mm-hm."

An excited squeal.

""Gilbert, he's DARLING!"

For the next thirty minutes, while he pretended to read a MAD magazine, she hovered the boy sitting at the place designated for "Canada", cooing over every detail, at how he was so very much like a "little girl"—his hands, his slim little wrists, his slightly upturned little nose, squealing with delight over his large violet eyes, his small ears, his softly waved hair, and off-flying curl. Whenever Gilbert would roll his eyes, she'd shoot back saying, "As if you're not agreeing with me!"

Truth be told, she was right. Gilbert felt his mouth quirk every time Matt would look behind himself or scan the room, utterly perplexed, certain he was being examined by someone.

When Hilda finally returned to him, giggling in girlish glee, he asked under his breath, "I take it we have your blessing?"

"You've got my blessing to know him. BUT."

Verdammt, there was always a BUT.

"… I'm not giving my blessing for a relationship. I don't even know if there can even be one."

Gilbert felt sick.

"BUT."

Thank God for the BUT.

"… He does seem rather down. Do something."

"'Something'?"

"Don't make me spell it out for you. Something that will make him laugh."

"Like what?"

"Oh, come on! Are you telling me that you're not awesome enough to do something as simple as that?"

Verdammt, she knew him well.

As usual, France and England were arguing, shouting into one another's faces, their words indistinct. Seizing his chance, Gilbert raised his hand.

"A question from the floor."

In unison, both nations turned and shouted "YEAH?"

Fighting a smirk, he asked, "Exactly how much longer do you two plan on living in sweet DE-NIIII-AL~?"

There was a split second of silence before the chaos.

England lunged across the table, red-faced and claws ready, but was restrained by France (who was engaged in his current occupation with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm). Eastern Europe was shouting at him, Western Europe was trying to bring back order, Asia and the Americas was arguing amongst themselves for no particular reason, Southern Europe was napping, the Nordics were laughing so hard they had to clutch the table-top, and Africa was quietly enjoying the scene.

Red-faced and grim, Ludwig proceeded to drag out his brother by the collar.

Yet in all the discord (and the fabric digging into his neck), Gilbert was beaming, because in the back of the room, Matt was laughing harder than all the Nordics combined.

Hello, everyone. I was hoping maybe someone could do me a favor. You see, I was trying to cross out a line of text, Put a dash through it, you know? I've seen it done. Could some kind soul maybe private message me directions? Have a very G.R.O.S.S day!