He raised a leaden arm up and wiped the sweat from his hairline. Apron discarded, sleeves rolled, he shifted from foot to foot until America was in place. "I'm going to throw," he called, squinting into the setting sun.

He could make out America adjusting the bat in his hands. "Go ahead," he called back.

Lithuania bounced the ball a few times in his grasp before bringing his arm back and sending the baseball through the air. He quickly cupped his hands, trying to shade his eyes from the sun. The ball went sailing. He smiled. It would be considered a good pitch.

Then America's attention was called away. The brunette couldn't tell what was happening exactly, but he could see the blond turn his head, glance up at the last second. He watched in horror as the ball struck his employer's head.

Lithuania gave a shout as a dazzling spray of water fanned out around the American, who now rested in the pond. He jerked his head back and forth to push the invading worries from his head and ran to his companion.

"You got quite a' arm, Mister," one of the boys said as he joined them. Some were helping the American sit up, patting his back. The tallest boy offered him a hand, which he took.

A bit wobbly at first, America scratched the back of his head, other hand placed on his hip. He gave a laugh. "The boy's right. You sure do, Toris."

But the Lithuanian wasn't listening. Now that he knew his friend was okay, his mind started fretting. He had hurt America. He had physically injured America. The soaking figure in front of him seemed harmless enough, but . . .

"What's the matter, buddy?"

Lithuania took a step back. "I'm . . ."

America took a step forward. His smile wavering.

The brunette's eyes widened. "A-a . . ."

"Hey, are you alright?" The country's face took on a look of concern as he started toward Lithuania.

Who started apologizing rapidly in Lithuanian, before switching to Enlish. He wrung his hands and continued to back up, gaining as much speed as America.

The American halted, and he echoed the motion. "I'm not—do you think I'm mad? Oh, Toris, I'm not angry with you. It was an accident! I shouldn't have looked at the frog. My bad." America raised his hands as if surrendering. "Okay?"

Guilty fear etched itself onto the Lithuanian's features. He warily approached.

"See? S'all fine," America said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Lithuania jolted back, sucking a strangled breath through his closing throat.

The American quickly pulled his hand away. "Are you feeling—?"

"I-I'm well. I j—I just . . ." He faltered, then started murmuring apologies in Lithuanian once more.

"Ah, Teddy, here," America said, gesturing to one of the boys. Lithuania looked over before returning his gaze to the American. Concern was clear on his face. "He, um, knows some Polish, if that's any help. Maybe you could, uh—I mean if you can't explain in English."

Lithuania's eyelids fluttered and his breath hitched. "I do not know Polish."

Something uneasy was palpable in the air. Lithuania's stomach knotted. He knew it was because of him. The boys fidgeted, and the one called Teddy fiddled with his suspenders, pretending not to notice.

Lithuania focused on a pebble a few feet in front of him.

"But Arther said—" The confused sound in America's voice almost made him ache.

"I do not know Polish," he repeated. And he decided he would keep repeating it, until the matter was dropped.

"If you say so," America said after a while. Lithuania could see the American slide his foot across a dirt patch, barely in his line of vision. He sniffed. "Okay, boys," he said, raising his voice. "I think that's enough ball for t'day. Nearly dinner for you, isn't it?"

There were varying answers, although "Yes" was most common. After a short, awkward moment of exchanging uncomfortable glances, the crowd dispersed. Not so much as a goodbye was passed between people, for an almost instinctual feeling told them that one wrong word could set something of. What the something and the word was, they didn't know. And they didn't want to be the unlucky one to find out.

Lithuania realized that if America was going to seek revenge, he most likely wouldn't until they were back at the house. He held to this thought as they silently found their way back. Silence as they passed where they had earlier received food. Silence as Lithuania found the approximate spot where the drunk had approached across the street.

The city wasn't silent, of course. It continued in its loud, bustling fashion. Unseeing. Unknowing. And if it did know, probably uncaring. City people tended to keep to their own business. Lithuania had seen it before. He shook his head, trying to evade any oncoming thoughts that he'd rather not have on his mind.

America noticed, and seemed to take it as a signal to start a conversation. "Are you sure you're feeling well?" His face was shadowed, for the sun was well below the horizon, but somehow his eyes still managed to twinkle. He figured it was the moon.

Lithuania nodded, pressing his lips together. Was this it? They had only a few blocks left until they reached the American's house. It seemed so simple. So effortless. Ease into conversation. Bait him with feigned worry and an interesting topic. A pat on the back, concerned smile. Open the door, let him in first, take him to the cellar where the Englishman can't hear. This was America, so maybe something inventive to keep him quiet instead of a crushed windpipe. Lithuania shuddered. Tape? A gag rag? So elementary. There were plenty of objects able to draw blood, in the cellar. Some that could by brute force, breaking the skin, and others by delicately slicing. It wouldn't take America wanted it to. And, of course, unless—

America wrapped an arm around the Lithuanian. "Cold? Maybe we'll get that snow sooner than I thought! You know, I heard of this flower that blooms in snow . . . " Child's play.

No. No, no! He wouldn't fall for it.

The Baltic ducked out from under America's arm and backed up. "I am not cold."

A strange smile crossed the American's face as he turned to look. "Okay . . . Hungry? We'll be home in a minute." The blond continued up the porch steps.

"It is not my home."

"Home is where the heart is?"

Lithuania bit his lip as America beckoned him forward. He was free. He did not have to follow America anywhere. But if he stopped working for him, would he be able to stay independent? Could he even consider himself independent if he was a housekeeper?

"Damn."

The single word crashed Lithuania's train of thought.

"It's locked," explained America when he noticed Lithuania's quizzical, suspecting eyes. He jiggled the knob as if to demonstrate he was telling the truth.

"I thought you didn't lock doors," Lithuania added, stating it more like a question.

America's brow furrowed. "I don't. But . . . Artie does! So earlier wasn't enough to make him leave. Oh well, guess I'm glad, sort of. I just hope he didn't find the alcohol." America winced, looking almost sheepish, like a child imagining the punishment that followed getting caught.

Lithuania's eyebrows shot up. "Alcohol is illegal, and yet you have some?"

"Sh! Shh, not so loud," he whispered hoarsely, the sheepishness deepening as he glanced around.

Was this boy really capable of inflicting the revenge Lithuania was thinking of? His mental images wavered.

America tried all of the windows on the lower level of his house. The back door as well. A good fifteen minutes later, they were sitting on the porch steps, shoulders hunched and pressed together against the cold. It was this night Lithuania learned that America was not the best at breaking into houses. Especially his own.

After a moment's rest, America rolled his shoulders, then stood and stretched. "That crazy old bird. Locking up my house. But," he said, climbing the stairs and sitting on the porch railing. He grinned knowingly down at Lithuania. "I know one window he definitely didn't touch." With that, he hoisted himself to his feet, one hand gripping the overhang of his roof and an arm wrapped around the thin, wooden pole helping to keep it up.

"M-Mister Jones, that can't be safe!" Lithuania nearly shouted. He jumped up and over the stair rail right into the bushes, ready to catch the country if he fell.

The American let out a reckless laugh. "Of course it's not! But what's the worst that can happen? I'm young. You're in good shape. And I'm cold."

Lithuania took a deep breath and focused his eyes. "What can I do to help?" he asked through gritted teeth. This was not a good idea. This was definitely not a good idea.

"First of all, it's Alfred. Or Al. I'm not some old dapper. And second: Do you want to get on the roof, or shall I? Actually, you look a little more on the, er, scrawny side, no offense intended, so how 'bout you get up here and climb up on my shoulders?"

Lithuania's face betrayed him, deepening in pink. So he wasn't eating much, yet. It was simply his current phase of adjusting. That, and for the past few years, there hadn't been a whole lot on the front—the brunette whipped his head back and forth. This was not the time to think of such things.

He climbed out of the bushes and onto the porch, outside the railing. With the hand that was on the roof, America helped him to his feet. He shifted and shuffled, holding fast to the overhang since there wasn't a pole to hang on to on his side. "N-now what, um, Mister Alfred?" Don't look down. Don't look down. Don't look dow—

"Uh . . ." The American stared up for a good minute, obviously constructing the picture in his head. He crouched down, wobbling a little. "Hop on!"

What. No. What? "Hop . . . on? Hop on? Mister Alfred!"

"No 'Mister' necessary."

"We will fall!" Lithuania exclaimed, eyes desperate for the key to know how to talk sense into the young man beside him.

"Well, if you go on talking all negatively, then yeah. We will."

The Lithuanian blinked.

"Aren't you cold?"

He swallowed. Then weakly nodded. "Taip. I will comply. On your shoulders? Should I stand?"

America flashed a smile. "Okay, here's the plan: You inch towards me, and sort of keep your hands on top of the roof, Push against it so that only your toes are on the rail. And, uh, and then step up on my shoulders—yes, step. Don't worry, it won't hurt—and I'll give you a boost. Use your arms to elbow your way up. Not your hands. If you slip, and you're using your hands, it'll take the skin right off. There will be a window right in front of you. It's the one to my bedroom and is always unlocked. Just . . . just get yourself in and try not to break anything. Got it?"

He took a breath. "Inch toward you, push against the roof to lessen my weight, step on your shoulders, use elbows, open window, and don't break anything."

"Good. Ready?"

Lithuania nodded.

"Let's go."

The Baltic crept closer to the American until he was able to swing one leg around him. "Are you prepared?"

A swift nod.

Lithuania settled a foot on one of the blond's shoulders, then his other on the remaining, being sure to pull himself up as much as he could. There was a grunt, then America slowly stood, swaying dangerously. Lithuania quickly started shimmying up the roof. When the upper half of his body was stable, he let out a long sigh. America sounded better, as well.

"How you holding up?"

"I think I can reach it."

"Well, get the rest of you up there, and we'll be set."

"Taip." Lithuania stretched an arm, supporting himself with the other. He could almost reach . . . Just a little further. He couldn't help but smile from the rush of it all. He regretted not trusting the American's plan to work, but he could tell him later. Once they were inside and warm.

"Is everything okay?"

"O-oh, yes!" Lithuania started wriggle up some more, but something caught his eye. Right before attacking it. An evidently irritated bird ruffled its feathers, abruptly jumping out of its nest to squawk a warning. "I'm sorry, I will move," the country whispered as soothingly as he could. He started maneuvering to the left, away from the bird, but it seemed to take it the wrong way, and hopped right up to him, flapping angry wings. Grousing, and aiming its sharp beak at his eye. Lithuania yelped, the bird stabbing his arm. An instant too late, he realized he now had no arms supporting him, and he started sliding back down, roof taking his buttons on the way down. Flailing, scrabbling, kicking, he felt a foot connect with what he hoped for dear life wasn't America's head, but as he heard a holler and loud thump below, hope evidently failed him.

The Lithuanian was sure he would follow his employer to the ground, yet when he enclosed his hand around the bird and stopped thrashing, he found he hand stopped moving otherwise. He sucked in a ragged breath as the bird concentrated on pecking his hand bloody. Lithuania crawled completely onto the overhang, opened the window—unlocked, just like America said it would be—and tossed the bird into the air. Its wings shot out and caught an chilly breeze, but the creature did a roundabout and flew straight toward him. Eyes wide, Lithuania dove through the window, landing hard on the floor. Rolling over and bolting to his feet, he smacked the bird away, then slammed the window shut.

The glass rattled in its frame. Lithuania stood frozen, stunned. He turned away from the window and waded through the dark. He ran into the door at first, but as soon as it was open, he was feeling his way down the hall, down the stairs, and to the entryway. He undid the locks and bounded down the porch steps, afraid that if he jumped right off, his knees wouldn't hold him anymore. To his relief, America was awake, blood free, and simply sitting on the grass, stretching his neck.

"Mister Alfred."

America looked up. He grinned and accepted the hand Lithuania offered. "Quite an adventure, wasn't it?"

Lithuania didn't respond as the made their way up the steps. An adventure. That's all he thought of it. Judging his racing heart and throbbing hand, Lithuania felt it was more of a dangerous fool's stunt. He didn't dare say so, favoring to keep any punishment coming as minuscule as possible.

In the living room, the only room with a lamp on, they found a slumbering England nestled on the couch. A book laying pages-down on his chest. America sighed, slipping the country's shoes off and handing them to Lithuania. He hooked an arm under England's knees and slid the other under his shoulders. Lifting him and signaling Lithuania to follow, they started slowly up the stairs. America stopped at his own door, sticking a foot out to make sure it was open, then smoothly gliding around the familiar place, and setting him on the bed. Eyes accustomed to the dark, Lithuania watched as America carefully pulled his blankets up under the Englishman's chin. He beckoned Lithuania over and motioned him to set the shoes by the nightstand. America grabbed the unused pillow on the other side of the bed and they left the man to sleep.

Downstairs, America went straight to the kitchen, turned on the light, and took out all of the ingredients to make hot chocolate.

"I-I will," Lithuania said, stepping closer.

The country waved him away. "It's fine. I like making cocoa."

Lithuania bowed his head. He was tired and aching and figured America probably felt worse. The Lithuanian grabbed a rag, covered some ice with it from the icebox. He went right up to America and pressed it to the purplish lump on his head.

America sucked in a breath and pulled away.

"For your bump," Lithuania clarified.

The blond nodded, understanding, and gingerly leaned into the makeshift cold-pack. He winced at first, then held it himself and seemed completely untroubled by it.

"I am sorry for doubting you."

"What?" The bewildered look was back.

"I am sorry. I did not think your plan would succeed."

America chuckled. "It's fine. Fine! You're forgiven. To tell you the truth, I wasn't so sure it would work, either." He laughed again when Lithuania's eyebrows shot up.

The stupidity of it all. The danger. The damage. The situation felt extremely familiar. All that was missing was the reliably overconfident, slightly unusual pattern of speech he knew so well— Lithuania's stomach clenched and eyes burned. "Ah-Mi-Alfred," he uttered softly.

The other country looked up, stirring slowed.

"I-I actually don't feel so . . . I—may I go to bed?"

"Sure, pal. You don't need to ask."

"I will wash the dishes in the morning, do not worry."

"It's fine, I'll get 'em. If you're tired, you're tired. Get some sleep, okay? Oh—and you might want to wash that hand."

Lithuania's eyes widened. He looked down, seeing blood trickle unceremoniously off his hand. He was leaving a trail of blood! Tracking it all through the house! Oh, he hoped it wasn't everywhere. It was definitely in the kitchen, probably in the hall, as well. "I-I will clean the floor! I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I-I did not meant to, I—"

"Hey, hey," America interrupted, pointing his whisk at him. Lithuania watched the liquid drip onto the floor, right next to a drop of red. "Not a problem. Calm down. No big deal. Tend to that hand and hit the ha—er, get some sleep."

The only sound was clock's monotonous ticking. Lithuania nodded slowly. He backed to the door. "G-goodnight, Mi—Alfred."

"Sleep tight, Toris."


AN;;

I have one question for the two of you: WHY DIDN'T YOU TRY KNOCKING?

Sometimes simpler is the way to go.

The boy's actual name was Teodor, the Polish variant of Theodore, if anyone was wondering. He was called Teddy after late and former president Theodore Roosevelt.

You may be wondering why Lithuania acted that way, since he obviously does know Polish.

Look up Vilnius Dispute if you are unfamiliar with it.

Lithuania had issues. Poland taking Vilnius, Russia being all grabby hands and deceitfully friendly ono

I have no idea what the quality of this is. I wrote it at, like, two in the morning, and am probably going to edit it, soon.

Bah! I was going to say so much more, but I forgot what it was. It like, I write and write and go "Oh, I want to comment on this in the note at the end!"

And then I forget. =.=