….Part 6: Rum ...

I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.

Winston Churchill

….

"Italy?"

He took a swig of his drink, ignoring the voice.

"Veneziano."

It was more of an order that time, but the Italian just took a deeper swig.

"You need to stop, Italy. This isn't healthy."

He put down the glass, "And my brother is any healthier?" he slurred, looking the German in the eye, drunkenly.

"Italy…" Germany sighed, "Drinking yourself to death will do nothing for him."

"I don't care!" the Italian growled, nursing the rum in his hands, "I can't do anything anyway!"

Germany sighed, seeing he wasn't going to get anywhere with his friend skunk drunk on British booze.

They were still stuck in Britain, as it was currently the safest place to be and their own homes were under lockdown at the moment. But, sadly, the advantage of safety also came with the advantage of easy access to the choice drunk-maker of the British; rum. Italy was obviously an angry drunk, and it was a good time to be.

He had watched the video of the twins branding. Italy was nothing short of horrified by it, but his first worry was his big brother.

Germany assured him that Romano wasn't in the prison until the day after, and that Lithuania had told them the twins wounds healed well, but he still was upset over the chance that his was hurt (of course, the likely hood was rather high, but the German would rather not think of that at the moment).

Of course, Germany could see where Italy's fears were coming from; He was sure if he was captured, his bruder would be doing the same thing. But that was just what Prussia did best, drinking was his art. But Italy could do more than get drunk (normally he at least tried to do something) and by God if he was going to let him waste away in an English pub!

"Italy, put down the alcohol, pay the nice man, and we're leaving," he ordered the brown hair man next to him as he stood.

"No," the Italian went to order another drink.

Germany went to grab the glass from the Italian's hand, but Italy just slapped him calmly, picked up his drink, and started to walk, "Wanna be a meanie, eh?" Italy slurred as he walked through the door, "Fine, I'll just go to a different place."

The German quickly changed tactics, this time successfully grabbing the Italian by the waist and tossing him over his shoulders. He threw the bartender a few extra dollars and gave him a brief apology as he dragged Italy out.

"Put me down, Germany!" he screamed, "Put me down now!"

"Not until your sober, Italy," Germany sighed as he went outside and hailed a cab.

"Please just put me down!" Italy started to kick.

Germany realized cabby on the planet would be picking them up anytime soon, so he started walking to their hotel, "Calm down, Italy."

"I will not calm down!" he cried, "Put me down, Germany!"

It took Germany about two hours to clear the five blocks to get to their hotel ten blocks down. He silently thanked himself for forcing himself to over exercise as he swiftly took Italy up to their room.

He tossed the Italian in the shower, "You smell like rum," he said, "Shower."

Italy was about to argue, but, through a brief moment of sobriety, he closed the door, cutting off Germany's line of vision.

The German sighed to himself and sat on the bed as the water started running. He wished he could do something to ease his little Italy's mind, but his hands were tied.

He couldn't do much with out his national standing, and if he used that, then his whole nation would be dragged out of invasion to a full-fledged World War. Still, maybe he could try and send none war goods to England and France. At least it could help them a little, and he wouldn't be directly involved in the war effort.

As he thought about it, the idea reminded him of someone.

Yes, America did that too, during WWI and II. Of course, he was still attacked both times, despite his neutrality. And the western nation came close to a major treat against his southern states as well. But America did turn out well in the end. But a nagging thought entered his mind.

America was the one who needed saving.

He and his brother, who helped them even when they refused to help them, were in danger. So was Britain's other brother, Sealand, who was much too young to be captured, and Austria and Hungary were as well. And, of course, Italy's big brother (as annoying as Romano could be) was in just as much danger. They were all in need, and they couldn't do anything for them.

"Germany?" a voice came from the bathroom.

"Yes, Italy?" he said without looking at him, he could sense he was at least a little bit more sober.

The brown haired Italian sat down on the bed beside him, "'m sorry, Germany," he mumbled, leaning his head on his shoulder.

"It's alright," Germany brushed his hair, ignoring the smell of rum drawing up from his neck, "I don't blame you for wanting a break."

"Do you think he's going to be alright?" Italy asked, with a little bit of a slur.

"Well, he is Italian," Germany hesitated, than gave a rare smile, "So I think it's the others you have to worry about."

Italy smiled, "Ve~! Germany, you're so mean!"

"I know," Germany chuckled, "Why don't you sleep?"

"Sleep with me?" he asked, sitting back.

Now, if anyone else asked him that, Germany would either punch them, or think they were perverts, but this was Italy, and he wasn't just anybody else. So, Germany layed down next to his Italian and let himself be used as a human pillow, simply taking in the distinct smell of rum, pasta, and salty tears.

….Part 7: Lies ….

Reality is never as bad as a nightmare, as the mental tortures we inflict on ourselves.

Sammy Davis, Jr.

…

Don't say anything.

It had become his mantra for all those months.

Just don't say anything, and you'll be alright.

As long as he remembered that one simple rule, he would be safe. He would be able to see his brother again, he would be able to go home, he would be alright if he just stayed quiet.

Don't try to stop them, don't struggle.

He knew from just one brutal attack that fighting back was pointless. He had nothing left to fight with; he was injured, weak, and victimized. He could do nothing but hope who ever attacked him would stop sooner than later, but he rarely got his wish.

Remain calm. They like panic.

He had to remain stoic, or it would just egg them on. He didn't want that.

Just focus on breathing, that's all you need to do. Just. Keep. BREATHING.

"Alfred."

Don't respond, that's what they want.

"What's wrong, Al? Wake up!"

It's not Canada; they just want you to think that. Don't open your eyes.

"He's shaking. Something's wrong with him."

"We need to get his fever down again."

Ignore the pain. It's not that bad, you've had worse. You can handle it.

A cold feeling reached his head forehead, but he was already freezing, so he just tried to shake it off.

"Calm down, Alfred. We need to do this."

He stop moving for a second.

You can't struggle, they'll do worse if you struggle. Just give in, it'll be over soon. Just shut down and pretend nothing is wrong.

The coolness came back to his forehead, and he could feel someone's once hand on his head.

He flinched slightly at the touch, then, realizing his mistake, squeaked a little and tried to shakily protect himself by covering his face with his hands.

You messed up, they're going to punish you now, America. You lost this round.

"Sh…" gentle, feminine hands brought his shaking ones down to his chest, "Calm down, Alfred. It's alright."

Your just imaging again, you need to focus. Their just lies.

"Stop it, burger bastard, wake up!"

Just lies.

"Please wake up, America!"

It's not real.

"Alfred, wake up now!"

Lies.

"Please wake up. I love you." He felt a slight pressure on his wrist, like someone gently squeezing it, but he quickly threw it off.

All lies. Nothing but lies.

….Part 8: Strength ….

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

Ernest Hemingway

…..

Mathieu had woken up to an intense heat on his chest, and a subtle shaking from the form he clutched to his chest like a teddy bear.

"Alfred," he breathed, turning his twin around to see his face, "What's wrong Al? Wake up!"

Lovino, who was on watch that night, was the first to hear the commotion. The Italian woke Roderich, who groggily asked what the problem was.

"Alfred," Lovi told him quickly, "He's shaking. Something's wrong with him."

Roderich told him to wake but Elizabeta and rushed over. He laid a hand over Alfred forehead, "We need to get his fever down again," he ordered bluntly.

Matt picked up the cloth that they had used the other night and wet it again before gently placing it on Alfred's head. The feverish blonde tried moving away everything to cool fabric came towards him.

"Calm down, Alfred," he whispered kindly, "We need to do this."

He breathed a sigh of relief when Alfred stopped struggling after a minute and started to dab at his forehead. Matt eased down so that he was laying with his back against the wall on the floor. Once he was settled, Roderich was accompanied by Elizabeta and she laid the cloth on America's forehead again.

The American was calm until his brother sat beside him and moved a strand of hair from his forehead. Alfred flinched and started to breathe deeply.

Elizabeta stopped him from covering his face from his nonexistent attackers, "Sh…" she soothed, "Calm down, Alfred, it's alright."

He turned away from her, forcing her to stop petting his hair. The Hungarian was startled when he struggled to turn towards the wall, away from her.

"Stop it, burger bastard!" Lovino growled, when he saw the slight hurt on her face deep bellow the sadness, "Wake up!"

Alfred just started to hyperventilate.

"Please wake up, America," Peter bit his lip. He wasn't too scared by this sort of thing anymore, but it worried him none the less.

Roderich worriedly looked him over quickly, noticing slight convulsions, "Alfred, wake up now!" he urged, knowing it wouldn't get very far.

"Please wake up," Matt soothed gently, picking up his twins wrist and squeezing it, like Alfred had done last night, "I love you."

His heart broke a little bit when Alfred quickly took back his wrist and curled in on himself.

Mathieu watched him for a moment, looking at his hand.

After a few seconds of silence from the group, Mathieu sat back down and forced Alfred back into his arms. He gently held him down with his good arm tightly, while the other lay loosely on top of him, "Go back to sleep," he told the others, "I'll stay up with him until he wakes up."

No one moved for a second. Eventually, Lovino picked up Peter and sat a little bit away from the twins and tried to fall back to sleep. Roderich sent a begrudged Hungarian along with them, and picked up the wet rag. He handed it to Mathieu and sat down with Elizabeta again.

Matt managed to stop Alfred's struggling slightly and began dabbing at his forehead again, "Oh calm down, Al," he whispered, "Don't wake them up again. They've done enough without worrying about us so much."

Alfred stop convulsing as much, but he started panting again. Matt carefully reached over a pulled the water from their hole in the wall. He poured a small amount into his hand and put it to his brother's mouth.

He turned away from the liquid immediately, "Take a drink, Al," he soothed, "It will make you feel better, I promise."

The American shook his head.

"Just a little sip?" he managed to get Alfred's lip partially wet, "It'll help you."

Alfred flinched for a second at the cool liquid on his lips. He quickly figured out that it actually was water, and not some kind of poison of something. He hesitantly squinted till he found the source to be a few inches from his mouth and he started to drink like it was the last oasis on earth.

"Woah, Al, easy!" Matt chuckled quietly, "There's plenty, drink slowly."

He just ignored him and downed the water in a few seconds.

"Better?" the Canadian asked.

Alfred slowly raised his eyes, tiredly, just making sure he still was imagining things, before he nodded.

Matt ran a hand through his hair gently and picked up the cloth again, "Please don't move too much," he whispered into his twin's hair as he rest his head on the others, "I can't hold you that tightly with my bad arm, but I need to keep this on your forehead with the other."

He felt the head below his chin nod.

Alfred was still rigid and stiff, like he was ready to defend at any point, but Matt didn't try to calm him down. He only continued to dab at his forehead, moving hair from his shivering face every now and again, as he tried to remember a stronger, more confident Alfred, and how this this situation should be reversed. Because they needed Alfred. They needed America. If not for strength, they needed him for a smile or even just a happier thought. If he wasn't strong. How could they be strong?

Mathieu hardly even realized when the tears began to fall from his eyes into his brother's wheat gold hair, but he did recognize the gentle pressure on his chest when Alfred leaned farther back into it. He guessed that that small motion was his twin's way to answer his question, knowingly or not.

Either way, it gave him a message that gave him a little hope.

To him, it was simple;

You can be the strong one for me.