America threw you down on the couch and you bounced a little from the overly stuffed fluff of the cushions. You giggled, "Well that wasn't very gentleman like."

"Oh like you've ever cared," America brushed off the comment knowing he was right. He was always right, it was almost irritating. It wasn't the same kind of know it all as the German brothers, they were observant and stealthy. America could just read you like a book, well most of the book anyway. He seemed to miss any confession you ever wrote about liking him. On that matter he was a bloody idjit as England would say.

You played with the tassel on the pillow, "Maybe I do."

"Great another girl falling for strong Germany, imagine that."

You rolled your eyes, "That is not what I meant."

America sat down at the piano and uncapped the casing over the ivory stained keys, "What did you then? I would be delighted to comply."

"Bull you would."

"No honestly, have at me. Tell me what you want me to do, how can I prove I'm a gent?" He started playing the keys lightly, a tune so fait but you knew it well. It was the same one from last night's story, the same one that Denmark always went around humming, the same on Norway pretended he didn't know. You wondered if that song was Norway's trigger and thus why he ignored it too much. You knew it was Denmark's safety, keeping the flashback though not the tears back. You thought back to your conversation with Switzerland, to the look and flashback you made him have.

"Promise me Prussia won't get hurt too bad," Switzerland said from behind his desk.

"Call of the prank, at least on Prussia," you said back to America.

His fingers slipped, and you could see the girl throw herself into the ocean her song cut off as the mermaids pulled her down. "Excuse me?" America offered back.

"I don't want to hurt Prussia. I think it's a bad idea."

"Are you kidding me?"

"No, I can't do it. I can't hurt Prussia. He's-"

"The only reason we were doing this was because of you!"

"I don't see why it's such an issue to just have a part then."

"I spent hours writing that plan up so Switzerland would approve it, I played by the books."

"We can still go after Denmark if you want, maybe even get Egypt instead of Prussia."

"No the plan only works if it's Prussia and Denmark!" America was mad now as he stood up from the piano. "And being to key word."

"The plan stated and or."

"There is a reason why and comes first."

"There is a reason why or was added."

"What's your reason then?" He stared at you, his eyes iced over and his hair in his face. "Why do you want it canceled?"

You sat up on the couch and looked at him, "I told you, I think it's a bad idea."

"No no, someone changed your mind. That's what it is, it's not about the prank," America pointed his hand at you repeatedly as he inched towards you. However his steps were not as careful as his words. You knew you could not have taken him down in stance but you were far more rational then he was. You would not let it slip about Switzerland. You would not make Switzerland be a way out; America's rage would be at you not at him. Switzerland had not asked you to stop, he had approved it. But he had asked something that you knew America could not keep. America who could not even keep his mouth shut, "It's not about a change of heart. It's about your heart."

The line pulled you back. Great he finally reads that part of the book and becomes dyslexic unable to see the black writing clearly. Arabic had always confused him. You were growing impatient with his ignorance, "What? My heart? What does my heart have to do with this? It's perfectly logical!"

"Logical?! Ha, someone has brainwashed you."

"Brainwashed me? Oh course that's logical. If this was an Alien movie or a CIA show!"

"Military tactics are impossible? In a house of nations brought together to train for war? Yes you must have been brainwashed, you're not logical and you're no fun anymore."

You where fuming, you could feel the blood in your veins pop and pour into the empty spaces of your body, filling you up to the brink. Everything was threatening to pour out of you, to break you down and be unleashed. Why was he being such a jerk? What had gotten into him? What did he care? "I'm no fun because I think it's a dick move to hurt a nation that already lost his entire country thanks to you?"

You didn't care if he spiraled into a flashback or not. You didn't care if it took him back to begging his boss to not sign the document. You didn't care if he went back to having to reprint millions of maps so that it read East and West Germany instead of Prussia and Germany. You didn't care if he went back to the fact that he couldn't see one of his best friends that day because even the hero could not come up with the courage to face him. You didn't care how small he felt, how distressed of a damsel he was, or if he simply shriveled up. You wanted him to feel the pain of loss. What it was really like to fight. What it felt like to have every day be the revolutionary war. France had been through pain, Britain had, Denmark had, but no nation had like Prussia.

You wanted him to feel every tear that ran down Prussia's face. Wanted him to know and live every limitation he faced. You wanted him to know the pain of being human, and the curse of being a nation. You wanted the hero to know what it was like to lose everything, and have only the worst of both ends. You wanted him to know what it felt like to be in a tragedy; to live it instead of cast it as a weapon. You wanted him to live it all instead of read of it. You wanted him to not merely sympathize but empathize. You wanted the hero to be desperate, to want to be a villain.

You wanted him to feel like that girl in the story. Hopeless and loss, but you knew he was too busy being the first mate, just some idiot that wanted laughs and never answers. You didn't know what was coming over you, you were so mad at him. You had never had anything bad to say about America before, not one word. Everything someone else saw as a flaw, one of his idiosyncrasies was just charming to you, just endearing, it made you love him more. Now he could have been an angel and you still would have hated him. You wanted to rip the decorative sword off the wall and play darts with them, the bull eye being his glasses.

America stepped closer to you, only improving your chances of hitting him accurately, "You like him, that's it."

God he could not be more stupid could he? You wondered how it would be to like some who wasn't blind. Maybe the glasses were screwing with his head. I mean honestly you would have to see if there was a bifocal spell more the mind. You found yourself giving him the grimace of stares, "Pardon me?"

"Prussia."

"You think I fancy Prussia?"

"Or you like Switzerland or one of the other Germans; you think they are so great," America was dripping sarcasm now.

"Switzerland?!" As you spoke you realized that it was the only sound in the room other than America's heavy breathing. You heard no clatter from the kitchen; you heard no shower running down the hall. You knew they were all lingering about watching you fight with America. You knew that the only sound they would speak would be breaths and of making sure the other was quite. You wished there were pots clanging and shouts of Italian and Spanish and German and French. You wished you could hear France singing from the shower. You even wished for a food fight. But none came, all that came was English.

"But personally my money's on Prussia. Awesome Prussia. Poor misunderstood Prussia. Poor dissolved Prussia. Poor muscly and ripped Prussia." America stepped harder with every poor and every Prussia, poor for right and Prussia for left. He stabbed with his finger and his words to the point where he was stomping towards you. You had never remember the piano being so far away. You wished he would just reach you so you could slap him. You would give him no advantage of moving to him. "You don't want to hurt poor beautiful Prussia. Girls are always attracted to the nice guy that has lost everything. Or maybe it's Switzerland? I mean he is the brooding, powerful, and mysterious type, the bad boy that will treat you right. Or perhaps it's Germany? Rippling pectorals and all, so level headed, would make an excellent father; he's just misunderstood am I right?" Each adjective, each suggestion, each more hung on you and all at once it stabbed you. "Or Austria, you're just as composed as he is." With that final twist of the knife already embedded in your ribs he took the last step towards you. The toes of his shoes nearly standing on your bare feet.

You were mad, you were so mad. You didn't care what happened to him, or how you and felt about him. You would not sit here and help him plan this prank; you would not hurt Prussia or Denmark. You would do everything in your power to make sure it didn't happen. As if to show him all of what had just run through your head, as if to show him where you stood in relation to his plan, what side you took, what you stood for you rose. You allowed your chest to hit his, you would not be the one to back up.

You gave him back the same iced glare he had given you before. You felt your heart ice over as your glare perfected, and in all honesty you didn't care if it ever defrosted. You saw his eyes crack under the weight of your stare, and when they cracked you finally spoke, delivering the final blow, "No you're an asshole."

You pushed passed him, hitting his ribs with your hand in a jab worthy of the dagger you carried in combat. You did not knock him down, you did not slap him. You knew that there was no point in beating a dead horse, or trying to pull a statue off its high horse. Either way, if you hadn't knocked him down to the battle ground nothing would. You walked to the door and upon reaching the handle you broke your promise of not looking back, "and now you are on your own," you made sure to get the dagger in just the right place.

Then you slammed the door and took off towards the direction of your room. That was the plan anyway, but your stomping feet knew you would probably end up breaking something in your room. You would throw something, or punch something, or kick something. Your feet dragged you instead to the training room, specifically the one that dueled as sparing and boxing. You were still in comfortable training close, your hair still tied up in a ponytail, you grabbed the tape and pulled at it, wrapping it around your knuckles. One spin, two hands, three layers, four knuckles, five fingers, six wraps, than you pulled it apart with your teeth and plastered the edges down.