First of all: Hetalia does not belong to me, nor will it ever.

I'd like to thank RasalynnLynx for an excellent idea that finally got incorporated (As mentioned previously, I keep this planned a few chapters ahead, so it took a while for me to incorporate).

Okay, okay! I'm sorry- I missed my schedule. It was bound to happen eventually.

…I'm a little pessimistic, aren't I?

(I wrote a long [for this series: second longest in the whole thing so far] chapter, though! Yay?)

However, I do have a good reason-two good reasons, actually, the first being my trip, the second being that I ran into difficulties writing this. He talked to me for hours on end, and finally told me to say hi to all my readers for him. I'm still trying to figure out if that's a good thing, but hi.

Why did I have problems with this? When I first thought of this story, I thought of two scenes in particular (that were later joined by many others). The second one was America pulling the unicorn's horn.

The first was the one that gave me the idea for this-and was decidedly less comedic. This chapter took a while partly because I wanted to get it right. I'm still not sure I did, but when Marina gave me those two reviews, it motivated me to at least try and finish and post. I can always retcon later if I decide to change it.

You really shouldn't have any trouble telling what scene I'm referring to. In the hope it came off the way I wanted it to-enjoy!

Beep-Beep. Beep-Beep. Bee-

England woke up and turned the wristwatch's alarm off. What an odd dream I had last night…

Then he saw he was in America's bed. Again. Oh, shit, he realized. It wasn't a dream.

And I'm STARVING, he thought. He had grabbed a few (surprisingly edible) snacks while playing videogames, but they had hardly made up for the physically tiring day he had had yesterday.

He could work later. England got up and went looking for the kitchen, remembering the approximate point America had run off to the previous day. He got lucky, and it didn't take him that long to find the kitchen.

England investigated the pantry and realized that America must not do much cooking. There wasn't much he could work with. And, unsurprisingly, there was plenty of coffee but no tea.

He sighed and went to work. In the end he was fairly pleased with himself. Given the circumstances, the sorta egg-muffin thing (emphasis on the "thing". Otherwise, this sentence would be implying that what England had come up with was food of some sort.) that he'd come up with was pretty impressive.

England bit into it, and gagged. It washorrible. Taste buds that hadn't had to seriously deal with British cooking in over a hundred years reeled in agony. A few died on the spot.

England got a towel and spit the taste-bud murdering concoction out. It certainly wasn't appropriate, but he didn't want to be throwing up later, or otherwise suffering from ingestion of the obvious health hazard.

Frazzled, he then tried to figure out what went wrong (in that vague, abstract manner one adopts when one has just been through some sort of traumatizing event). I must have read some of those labels wrong, or something. Or maybe some of that stuff was bad. Yeah, that's it.

(Half the world groans at the wrong lesson learned.)

Deciding not to risk the pantry again, he surveyed the fridge. It was almost completely full of junk food. Sighing again, England consigned himself to his fate and ate some of the heart-clogging crap. Once or twice probably wouldn't kill him.

Then he went to find a computer with internet, where he could at least get some of his work done.

Come on, I know America has a study somewhere, even if he never uses it, England thought, frustrated. He had been trying to find a computer for nearly thirty minutes now, this time adding to a gradually growing map as he went. He'd even tried looking in the garage at one point (which he'd just walked into. Was anything in this house locked? Then again, this was America. Most countries would think twice before trying to mess with him. [England felt a brief moment of yearning for that luxury.] It was still really irresponsible, though. There were plenty of countries (and ordinary people) stupid enough (France) to give it a try.).

England wandered around a little bit more, adding another game room and some corridors to his map.

He was just about to go wake America up when he pulled on a locked door.

England knocked on it, trying to see if it was a bathroom. No one seemed to be inside, and the wood door suggested otherwise. It didn't seem to be anything special. It was in a small corridor towards the back of the house, back in the area that America didn't seem to use much. But it was locked. Nothing in America's house was locked.

I should probably just leave it, England reminded himself, trying to squash his growing curiosity. But what in the world would America lock up?

Finally, England wriggled his hand in between the door and tugged on the lock-hard. Something snapped, and the door swung open.

England surveyed the dust-strewn storage room with disappointment. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it had been something more glamorous. He was about to close the door and leave when he saw the musket, bayonet attached, sitting on one of the piles, the dust around it swirled and broken.

There was a deep slash along the gun's handle, a deep slash made by another's bayonet. Made by England's bayonet. Not sure how to react, England walked closer, just to be sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. They weren't.

For a moment he just stood there, remembering, bittersweet emotions surfacing as he realized America had kept it all these years.

He was gripping the gun tightly, England realized. He put it down softly. Dust billowed out from underneath it, some settling on the otherwise clean musket. It must have been cleaned, and fairly recently.

A small clink alerted England to a falling trinket. He caught the displaced object in his hand, feeling the woodwork of the custom carving. Even before he opened his palm, he recognized one of the little soldiers he had carved. He set it back among the other custom made pieces for the chessboard.

The musket was one thing. England could rationalize it as defiance. The soldiers were another. They were very much a gift, a gift that would have reminded America of his colonial days every time he picked one up. Yet he had kept them.

Now England started going through the piles, wandering the storeroom. Here was the tuxedo he had had given America to help with his horrible wardrobe, there that one tea set with a crack in one of the cups where America had gripped it too hard. At one point he saw the punch-thing that he had given America that one July the fourth.

Everything. America had kept everything England had ever given him, locked away in this one room.

It was too much. England started crying, gently, softly, quietly. It wasn't a very heavy cry, but the tears were there, lightly rolling off his face, falling with muffled plops and plinks on the relics.

America had always implied that he'd thrown this stuff away, but here it was. Here, in what was probably the only locked room in America's house. America hadn't wanted him to know, hadn't wanted England to think that he still cared about those times.

What would America do if he knew that England had found this hiding place? Clean it out, claiming that he had just forgotten?

England didn't want that. Slowly, he picked up the things, placing them back where he had found them. He would leave no evidence. None. He slowly worked the lock, getting it into a position where it would jam the next time it was opened. America would think he had broken it himself. Then England left, closing the door behind him. It shut with a final click.

Yes, no evidence, none. No evidence, except for the small, darkened circles where tears had swept the dust away.

…

Far away from the room, England sat down on a chair by a window, thinking. The room didn't really change anything. It was there, but it was still locked. America might remember, but he obviously didn't remember quite the way England did. Nothing had changed.

But as dawn came and the sun rose, England couldn't help thinking about the locked room, and all the memories it hid inside.