Soluble Chapter Eleven: Unforeseen Complications

I can't escape this hell

So many times I've tried

But I'm still caged inside

Somebody get me through this nightmare

I can't control myself

So what if you can see the darkest side of me

No one will ever change this animal I have become

Help me believe it's not the real me

- Animal I Have Become, Three Days Grace

The cough wrested itself from cracked lips, sounding louder than it should have. It seemed almost to echo in the dark room, though he was almost positive that was just his imagination. Or possibly another hallucination. He had been having a lot of those recently, though he was fairly certain – when he was able to form a coherent thought – that they were in part caused by the fact that he hadn't been eating.

A tiny, painful smile appeared on his face for a moment as he leaned his head on the doorframe. His hand was gripping the wood so tightly he could feel it slowly being crushed under his fingers, and there was a small comfort in that.

At least his strength hadn't abandoned him.

Clenched in his other hand – less tightly, so as not to break it – was a bottle. The clear fluid sloshed in the bottom, nearly finished. He raised it to his lips, taking a long swig, letting it burn a path of bright warmth down his throat and into his stomach. Lately it was the only thing that could inspire that warmth, where in past times it had been enough to see his little family gathered around the fire, laughing at some joke. Even if he hadn't been able to join them without the smiles wiping off their faces, it had been nice to at least watch.

The fireplace was dark now, and the room was cold. The window, where he could still remember a little yellow bird entering from in the dead of winter, was cracked and had panes missing. The walls were cracked too, and every now and then a rain of dust came from the ceiling. He took a careful step forward, and when this was achieved successfully, another.

It isn't fair.

He had been thinking that a lot lately, as his house slowly collapsed around him. As his family left him – took off running and never once looked back. Perhaps they had never really cared. He had gotten that impression, sometimes. And yet, it gnawed at him, ate at his mind into the long hours of the night, as he stared unblinking at whatever happened to be in front of him. He hadn't been sleeping well, as of late.

"Why…" he said, standing in the center of the room, his voice slurred, "Why's it… not fair…" His words trailed off into mumbling, and the tall man took another long swig of his drink, nearly draining the bottle.

Everyone leaves you, a tiny little voice whispered in his mind. What cut him the most, though, was that it sounded just like Litva. And you deserve it. You're a monster, and you know it. You try and pretend otherwise, but deep down inside you know. You've always known.

"S'not true," he muttered aloud, waving a hand ineffectively at the air, as if to swat away a fly. "M'not a monster. All I wanted… was a family. I helped you. You were… weak on your own. Together… we would've been strong, but… but…"

But you just had to grind us under your boot until we were too broken to be of any use, didn't you?

"No!" The shout was loud, and echoed strangely. It induced another round of coughing, and, bent almost double, the man managed to stagger to the rotting couch by the fire. The couch where his family had once sat, reading or simply talking. It creaked alarmingly as his weight crashed into it.

"No," he said again, softer, not noticing the flecks of blood on his lips from the coughing. "No, I never meant… never meant t'hurt you. Supposed… supposed to make you stronger… s'how... He taught me… an'… an' I thought that was what you were supposed to do."

He waited a long moment, draining the last of his bottle, but no reply came. The voice in his head – had it been in his head? – fell silent. Just like the house. The absence of sound had slowly consumed his dwelling as everyone left, until it was so quiet that it was painful, and all he wanted to do was scream just so that there would be something to listen to.

"I tried…" he said at length, his voice strangely timid. "I tried… an' you didn't listen, Litva. You never listened. You wanted me to be the monster." Like a pendulum, his voice swung back to being angry, though it was still quiet, consumed by the sheer size of the silence.

His free hand bunched in his scarf, tugging at the fabric. It had been soft and warm once, but now it was stiff and stained with blood and filth. There was filth everywhere. His hair clung to his scalp, greasy because he had not bothered to wash it. His coat was in tatters, hanging around his body like a great sheet, looking too big for a man who had lost a great deal of weight.

"ANSWER ME!" His voice came in a sudden burst, sounding for a moment like it once had.

There was another long pause, in which his words hung in the air, and just when he was about to shout again, a long low groan filled the room. He blinked, confused for a moment, until wit a resounding crash, the couch beneath him gave way, the wood breaking under the strain of holding him up. He crashed to the ground amidst a cloud of splinters, dust, and the stuffing from threadbare cushions.

He sat there for a long while, in the middle of a couch that had just broken in half, expression faintly surprised. His shoulders finally began to shake, and from his lips escaped a deranged sound that, had it been less raw and broken, might have been a laugh. It went on and on and on because it was just so deliciously ironic that he couldn't stop.

Long after the dust had settled around him, the sound continued. He drained the last of his bottle and nearly choked on it because he couldn't stop laughing. He wasn't even aware of the bottle rolling from his fingers to smash upon the bare floor, or of the faint sound of another wall collapsing in some distant room. He didn't hear the sound of the wind picking up outside, nor of the way that it started gusting in through the broken windows.

Ivan Braginski wasn't aware of the fact that, for the first time in a long time, tears were running down the sides of his face. He didn't notice either, when his broken laughter changed into ragged, raw sobs.

"This is completely demeaning, Roderich." There was a faint whine in his tone that made the Austrian's lips twitch. "I'd rather lie in bed all day. This just makes me look like an invalid." The Prussian man crossed his arms over his thin chest, mismatched eyes narrowed.

"Gilbert, you already look like an invalid. Everyone in this house, including the dogs, could probably knock you over by breathing too hard." He was moving around the room, pulling open the curtains – which the white-haired occupant always closed – to let in some sunshine.

"Look, even the weather agrees with me." Gilbert gestured to the sky, which, while still somewhat sunny, was gradually being taken over by clouds that promised rain. "I won't do it."

Roderich turned, eyebrows raised. "Gilbert Beilschmidt," he said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Stop whining. It's embarrassing, coming from you. Do you want what's left of your muscles to disappear? You don't want to be an invalid, but you'd doing an excellent job of trying to be just that."

"Where's Antonio?" Was the sullen response, though the Prussian did swing his legs carefully over the edge of the bed. "He's nicer than you are."

"I did attempt to explain that when I walked in, but someone wouldn't shut up –"

Gilbert tilted his head, a grin appearing on his face. For a moment he looked almost like he was back to normal. "Roderich Edelstein. Stop bitching. It's embarrassing having to listen to you."

The Austrian huffed, but didn't deign to reply. "Here," he said shoving the item that Gilbert was so reluctant to accept into his hands.

"Anyway, you were saying about Antonio?" Gilbert asked, his eyebrows rising. The movement made the scar over his blind eye stretch, and he absently itched at it, trying to delay the moment where he would have to stand up.

The Austrian straightened a corner of the duvet on the albino's bed, and sighed. "Yes, he's here. In the kitchen and making a general nuisance of himself, I'm sure. He's been all but frothing at the mouth since he got here this morning."

Gilbert's eyes flicked to the window again, then back to his keeper. "He's been here since the morning? Edelstein, it's the afternoon. Why didn't you wake me up sooner?"

Roderich shrugged in reply. "I wanted to delay the inevitable argument that we just had. Besides, you need your sleep. The Spaniard can wait as long as he needs to."

The Prussian made a rude noise, but didn't try and argue. Rather, he started to push himself off of the bed. While his strength was slow in returning, it was coming back. He still suffered from bouts of coughing that made him feel like his lungs were being shredded inside, but Gilbert no longer felt exhausted every time he tried to move an arm. His sleep was lighter these days as well, and he had a sneaking suspicion that someone had been giving him something to keep him under – what it had been, he couldn't imagine.

"This is demeaning," Gilbert repeated, grimacing. "I can't believe that I've been reduced to this."

"Oh, stop complaining, or I'll tell Spain that you don't want to see him," Austria said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. One could only take so much of a sick Gilbert before one started to feel ill as well.

The other man glared. "You wouldn't dare," Gilbert growled. The sudden ferocity in his voice was rather ruined by his gaunt, pale features and the clothing that was practically falling off of his skinny frame.

Roderich rolled his eyes. "You'd be surprised. I'm guaranteed to beat you down the stairs, so I'm sure I can arrange to have him gone by the time you get down there…"

Gilbert moved with surprising speed – relative to his current condition, of course – and was at the door before Austria had even straightened his coat. "I could beat you with two broken legs and a collapsed lung, Austria, and don't you forget it."

"What was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of your wheezing." A moment later the brunette was forced to duck as something cracked off the wall just above his head. "Alright, alright, I give," he said quickly, lest the next strike actually connect. "Maybe giving you that wasn't a good idea… all it does is extend your reach."

The Prussian grinned like a madman. "I'd kill to have a sword, but I suppose this will have to do for now," he conceded. His eyes wandered back to the open door, and the landing and stairs beyond it.

He hadn't been off of this floor since he had woken up – though he had been allowed to shuffle around the rooms up here with some freedom. So long as he had one of his nursemaids tagging along – Roderich, the nation he was told was something like Kannada, or the man who looked like Holy Rome but wasn't. He far preferred the former two; Roderich might have been a prissy aristocrat, and the other nation rarely said anything that he could understand, but at least neither of them looked at him with an expression that looked like a kicked dog when they thought he wasn't looking. It was downright unsettling, and he had taken to avoiding the imposing blonde nation as much as someone who tired quickly and was largely bedridden could.

"Gil, are you alright?" The Austrian's voice in his ear made the white haired nation jump slightly, and he glanced over with a vaguely startled expression. Roderich was staring at him with some concern, eyebrows raised. "If you're too tired, we can do this another time. Or I can have Antonio come up here…"

"Wha? No, no." Gilbert was quick to recover. "Sorry. I was thinking."

A small smile appeared on the other's face. "Heaven forbid," Roderich said, though behind his glasses his eyes remained concerned.

"Oh, shut up," Gilbert muttered under his breath, aiming a kick at the Austrian. The movement unbalanced him, and he had to catch himself on the doorframe with his free hand.

The other man just rolled his eyes, and sidestepped Gilbert, heading towards the stairs without another word. After a moment spent nursing his wounded pride – though he was beginning to realize at this point his pride wasn't even worth salvaging – Gilbert shuffled after.

"Please, Mr. Carriedo, calm down. He'll be down in his own time." Matthew, leaning against the kitchen counter, was watching the Spaniard pace around and around the kitchen table – and had been doing so for the past forty minutes.

"I told you, Canada, just call me Antonio. You're making me feel old." The nation in question, while not looking the least bit anxious, was revealing all through his body language. It wasn't just the pacing. He kept glancing at the clock, as if he could somehow make time go faster by sheer willpower. Every now and then he would start gnawing on his thumbnail, something that made Matthew want to smack him, just like England had done to him in order to break him of that particular habit.

"Sorry," Matthew said, toying with a lock of his hair. Spain's nervousness was starting to rub off on him, though he couldn't say why. It had been a while since Austria had gone up to fetch Gilbert.

"What're the chances of him being able to understand me?" The question cut through Canada's own silent worry, and he glanced up. Antonio had, mercifully, stopped pacing – though the way he was drumming his fingers on the back of his chair promised to become equally as irritating.

Matthew shrugged, and wished Germany hadn't gone out to walk the dogs. He didn't like answering questions that only made the Spaniard more agitated. "As far as we've been able to tell, he doesn't understand German, English, or French, aside from a few words. The only thing he does respond to currently is Russian, which is why Mr. Edelstein is the one who has the most contact with him right now."

"So basically I shouldn't get my hopes up, si?" The brunette sighed, and stuck his hands in his pockets, glancing at the clock with what he evidently thought was a subtle movement.

Matthew let out a sigh, and shook his head. "I wouldn't, if I were you. It's best to take things in… small steps, with him. He's still a bit – er – fragile, I suppose."

Antonio snorted, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "I've heard Gilbert called a lot of things, but fragile was never one of them." The smile turned into a grimace. "I suppose I should be happy just to have him alive, what with the dissolution of East Germany and all."

Canada winced slightly. Dissolution was a word that was almost painful. "He's still here," he said, voice a little too firm. "And that means that somewhere, there's still a part of him."

"But in whose hands is that part, exactly?" Spain's eyes were dark and very old as he met Canada's stare. Both of them looked away a few moments later, neither wanting to mention the unspoken name hanging in the air between them.

"Are you still down there?" The welcome voice of Roderich broke through the suddenly awkward silence between the two nations, and both of them pounced on the chance to focus their attention and thoughts elsewhere.

"Si, Austria. And getting impatient. Is Gilbert going to grace us with his presence anytime soon?" It was as if he had never uttered his ominous question. In the space of a few moments, the Spaniard had cleared his expression, schooling its features into his usual cheerful expression.

Roderich appeared at the base of the stairs, and half smiled. There were circles under his eyes, and Canada felt a pang of sympathy for the Austrian nation; he had been pouring everything into looking after the albino, and it was finally beginning to show. Matthew's eyes flicked back to Antonio, but the Spaniard was ignoring both of them, his eyes riveted to the slight figure that had appeared on the stairs just behind Roderich.

The Prussian looked nothing like how Spain remembered him. While Gilbert had always been pale – his white hair helping to further wash his features out – he looked positively ghost-like. As if the slightest puff of air would knock him over. He had always been wiry too, but even that seemed to have melted away, leaving behind bones with skin stretched over them. And stretched was the right word – Gilbert's cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken. All of the bones in his hand stood out, like tiny accusations.

"The last time somebody stared at me that intensely, Antonio, it was a beautiful woman, I spent the night having passionate –"

Well, at least his personality hadn't changed. But despite the habitual, mischievous smile that always appeared on his face whenever in Gilbert's company, Spain couldn't help his glance moving to the thing that Gilbert was holding.

"Why're you holding a cane?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself, and he began internally hitting himself the moment he had asked it. What a stupid question. It wasn't hard to guess why the other was using a cane, one simply had to look at him.

Gilbert's expression was filled with something unreadable, and he turned his head to stare at Roderich, eyebrows raised.

"He wants to know why you've got a cane," Roderich said quietly, shifting slightly.

Antonio felt a moment of irritation. "He's standing right there, Roderich, I'm sure he can hear me –"

"Spain." Canada's voice was soft. "It's not that he can't hear you. He doesn't understand what you're saying. Remember? The only thing he can speak right now is Russian." Matthew moved forward and touched him lightly on the shoulder – an apology and an encouragement all in one, and promptly left the room.

Shit. Of course. Spain looked back at Gilbert, who had arranged his features into a smile. But Antonio knew him almost as much as he knew himself, and could see the pain in his eyes, mismatched as they were.

"My awesome finally got too large for this body to contain, and it's weighing on me," The Prussian supplied in answer. The smile flickered slightly. "Well, that, and I tend to fall over if I walk around without support, and I didn't want to have to cling to Roderich here."

"Thank god for that," Austria muttered under his breath – also in Russian, Spain noted, now that he was listening for it – with a faint smile. Gilbert rolled his eyes at Roderich, and Antonio felt a pang of sadness liberally mixed with jealousy. The Austrian was sharing in something that he, despite having been friends with Gilbert for far longer, could not.

If Antonio thought he was being subtle then he was an idiot, Gilbert decided. He always had been able to read the Spaniard like a book, and now was no different. The Prussian understood his frustration; he could relate to the frustration of being unable to communicate with those around him. And he could practically feel the jealousy oozing off of the brunette as Roderich joked with him and he responded – something that he and Antonio had done many times.

He wasn't pleased with this predicament either, but he supposed that he had gotten somewhat used to having a translator. It was still fucking weird; he wasn't sure if Roderich was editing what the others were telling him, and he still wasn't happy about the situation – nor did he understand why everyone around him was suddenly speaking in languages he didn't know – but he had become used to it.

Gilbert shivered slightly at that realization. He sent a silent prayer to whoever happened to be listening that this wouldn't last forever. That some time soon, he'd be able to joke with his Spanish friend without the nuances of speech being lost in someone else's translation.

"Are you going to get off the stairs anytime soon, or are you content to stand there all day?" Roderich's voice cut through his musings, and Gilbert blinked, realizing that he had been standing there like an idiot this whole time.

"Sorry," he muttered, surprised enough to actually apologize. The white haired man carefully maneuvered himself onto the next stair. They were an obstacle that he hadn't had to face in a while, and they were harder to get down than he wanted to admit – and he didn't even want to think about how he was going to get back upstairs.

But as his foot landed on the next one, he was struck by a strange sensation of something being wrong. Despair as painful as a knife in the ribs suddenly consumed him, and he stumbled. Both of the men below him started forward as he barely managed to cling to his balance. There was a clatter as the cane fell from numb fingers. His eyes widened, and his free hand reached up to touch his chest.

"Gil, are you –" His head snapped up. That hadn't been Roderich's voice. He stared at Spain for a moment, mouth opening slightly.

"Stop… lying… doesn't… you… help… please…" Gilbert managed to gasp, barely comprehending that the words that had slipped out of his mouth sounded completely alien before another spasm of anguish washed through him, and his whole heart seized violently. Not again, he managed to think desperately, before his body, still weak, simply gave out and sent him crashing to the floor.

The moment he drew level with the house, Germany knew something wasn't right. Matthew was standing on the porch, tugging on his curl and looking up and down the street with a distraught look on his face. The dogs started straining on their leashes, barking furiously. Ludwig felt the colour drain from his face as he stared wordlessly at Matthew.

"Ludwig," the other said, voice very soft. "We don't know what happened. One minute he was fine, if a bit shaky, and the next –"

The German nation started up the steps to his house like he was a stranger. "Is he alright?" There was no need to ask whom this was about.

Canada shrugged and fiddled with his glasses, nervous. "Well he… he hasn't woken up yet. Spain and Austria moved him to the living room, and he's breathing, but… it was strange."
Part of him relaxed at hearing that. At least his brother was still alive. Seeing that expression on Matthew's face had nearly given him a heart attack. "Strange how? Actually, don't answer that. I want to see him." The blond man pushed past Canada and through the door, the dogs tripping over each other in their haste.

"That husky is Gilbert's, isn't it?" Austria was leaning on the inside of the doorframe leading to the living room, watching as Ludwig pried his boots off with his feet, still holding leashes.

Ludwig glanced up, a faintly pained expression on his face. "No, it isn't. It was only a dog, Austria. They don't have the lifespan that we do." He wiped his face blank, shaking his head slightly, as he pulled the four dogs towards the kitchen. He wrapped their leashes around one of the table legs, pushing a large water bowl within their reach. "Don't go trying to drag that table anywhere," he told them sternly, though their attention was focused on the water, straightening to look at Roderich directly.

The other nation was giving him that look again; the one that was pity and respect all wrapped up in one. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Though I admire your persistence. I wouldn't be able to… well, I wouldn't be able to keep doing it."

"Doing what?" Ludwig asked, eyebrows raised. Right now he would rather be looking in on his brother, not talking about his pets.

"Getting new ones." Austria gestured halfheartedly at the animals, their tails wagging furiously. The husky looked up at that exact moment, tongue hanging out and bright blue eyes wide and staring. "Isn't it hard, having to watch them die?"

Ludwig shrugged. "It's not easy, but you learn to live with it," he said quietly. "Looking after them was one of the things that kept me going. It showed me that there was still some good left in this world. That there was something that could look at me and not remember all my faults. Something that loved me for being me." He coughed into his sleeve, embarrassed at having said so much, and pushed past Austria. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to check on my brother."

"He remembered," Austria murmured as Ludwig passed. The German man froze where he stood, eyes wide. "Just before he lost conscious. Antonio said something to him in Spanish, and he responded. In German."

"Are you sure?" Ludwig's voice was suddenly hoarse. "Absolutely sure?"

"I know what German sounds like, Ludwig, regardless of the automatic translation. And that was definitely German." Roderich laid a hand on Ludwig's shoulder. "Don't get your hopes up, though. I doubt that it was –"

But Ludwig's expression was enough to stall anything else he might have wanted to say. For a moment the Germanic nation looked so singularly happy that Austria's warning died in his mouth, and he dropped his hand.

"It doesn't matter how long he managed it, Roderich," Ludwig said, moving to cross into the living room. "Because he did. And that means that my Gilbert is still somewhere inside that head."

He decided that he didn't like the Empire. He couldn't stand watching the monster that wore his face masquerade in front of everyone he had ever given a damn about. And it was a masquerade; unlike the hapless individuals in Ludwig's house, he was privy to the thoughts boiling just under the face that bantered with Austria, that looked with such puzzlement whenever Germany forgot that the Empire didn't know who he was…

It was absolutely maddening.

He couldn't remember consciously letting this other side of him have control. All he knew was that while he was aware of everything that his body was doing, he was powerless to prevent anything. As far as he knew, the presence controlling his body wasn't aware of his existence, which would explain why the Empire didn't remember as much as he did.

I might as well be back with the damn Russian, he muttered to himself – though how he managed to without a mouth was beyond him. He had no real sense of self here… wherever here was, anyway, because he didn't know the answer to that either. At least with him I had something to verbally abuse…

He shifted, or at least imagined he shifted, seeing as he lacked anything that could be considered a body, when it hit him. Their shared heart – though it wasn't really theirs, he thought nastily – throbbed painfully. There was a brief pause, and then like a tidal wave breaking on the shore, despair consumed him.

But while the personality in control of their body was completely immobilized by the sudden sensation, he had no real body with which to feel. It was a brief window, but a window nonetheless. He felt the momentary weakness of the other presence, and lunged forward, shoving the Empire to the side even as their body stumbled forward on the steps.

He heard Antonio say something, but it didn't register. All he knew was that they needed to know that he was still here, that he was trying to wrestle control of his body back… but he had forgotten, through the years, how to operate his own mouth.

He's lying to all of you! His thoughts are filled with blood, and he doesn't care about anyone! Help me, please!

The words came out garbled, the sentence he had been trying to say lost as he struggled to maneuver the suddenly intricate muscles of a physical form he had not used in over a decade. He saw their eyes widen, a moment before he felt the Empire shift in the back of his head, startled and angry. He felt their body slam into the stairs, heard the panicked cries from the other nations, before the Empire shoved him out of control and back into the darkness.

Back into hell.

"I think we need to consider it, at the very least." Roderich's voice was tight. "I know none of you like the idea, but –"

"I don't let anyone go over there. He's better off rotting in his own misery. I won't stoop to that level." Ludwig's voice was equally as tight. The German nation paused to take a deep gulp of the beer in his hand.

The four nations were gathered in the living room, having moved an unconscious Gilbert back to his room after he had collapsed. Matthew had long since fallen asleep, worn out from the day. His head had fallen onto Spain's shoulder. For his part, Antonio was sitting as still as he could, not wanting to disturb the Canadian who according to Germany hadn't slept in days. Ludwig was sitting in one of the chairs, a husky lying across his feet, and a frustrated expression on his face. Roderich was perched awkwardly on the edge of the smaller couch, twirling his wine glass absently in one hand.

"Maybe Austria is right," Antonio ventured into the silence. "I am sure if Gilbert would want us to do anything that could help him." He raised his eyebrows slightly. "Besides, it isn't as if Russia is at the peak of his power. He had faded considerably. His empire has collapsed."

"He's still a lunatic," Germany muttered, glaring at Spain. He had hoped that the easygoing nation would have taken his side in this manner.

"Regardless of his personality, I think we need to talk to him. I warned you that what came over the Wall might not have been entirely your brother. His mental state is only the most obvious of what could be many problems." Austria leaned forward, heedless of the wine that sloshed out of his glass. "You need to push your personal dislike aside. Keep in mind that we don't know what happened to Gilbert while he was over there."

"Si. I agree with Roderich." Spain sighed softly. "And I think that this conversation had best be happening soon. We may be running out of time."

That caused raised eyebrows from both Germany and Austria. "And why is that?" the former nation asked, leaning back in his chair and taking another swig of beer.

"I have been hearing some disturbing whispers from Francis. He did not seem to be able to say much, but suffice to say, our dear friend Arthur is up to something.

There was a long silence filled only with Matthew's faint snores as the three conscious nations considered this latest obstacle.

"That isn't good," Austria said at length, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Those two were never on very good terms. But I'd like to know why Francis knows enough to be able to give you advance warn –"

The aristocrat's words trailed off, as all of their eyes went to the ceiling, and the room directly above them. There was another long pause, and then –

"Did anyone else hear that?" Antonio's voice was cautious, but he needn't have bothered saying anything – Germany bolted from his chair with the sound of a dropped bottle and a yelping dog, with Austria close on his heels.

The Spaniard started to get up, but heard a faint snort directly in his ear. The Canadian nation slumped on his shoulder had unconsciously wrapped his arms around one of Spain's, and was holding it in a death grip as he slept. Antonio bit his lip, looking towards the stairs the other two nations had just raced up, before sighing in a resigned sort of way.

"I suppose we'll wait here, then, won't we, Matthew? I'm sure it's nothing." He let out a strangled little laugh. He had been working to keep it together ever since seeing his usually boisterous friend come down the stairs, needing the support of a cane simply to stand up. "I'm sure it's nothing," he muttered again, though he wasn't sure who he was trying to fool.

Shit. Stairs hurt.

He cracked his eyes open once he was positive there was no one in the room – an unheard of occurrence since he had woken up here all those days ago. There was always someone in the chair next to the bed, either half asleep of more likely staring at him like a hawk. Gingerly he pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the throbbing in his head for the moment.

Alone for the first time in what felt like forever.

Despite himself, the Empire felt something like a grin curl his lips. Finally. He had been growing tired of putting on a show for everyone around him. It was difficult containing his aggressive needs when confined to such a tiny house. Before he had crossed over the Wall, there had been an outlet. There had always been something to fight, someone to hurt. He had known that the one he had been hunting had been somewhere nearby.

Carefully he slid out from under the covers, and planted his feet on the floor. His head was throbbing something fierce where it had connected with the stairs, but he pushed the physical discomfort to the back of his mind. His cane was resting just beside the bed, within easy reach, but the Empire sneered at it. With one movement he was standing, without any trace of the shakiness he had displayed earlier in the day.

"So easy to fool. I expected Roderich to pose more of a challenge. Pity." He knew the Austrian was up to something anyway. They weren't on very friendly terms normally, and all of this bantering and mothering had baffled the Empire. Of course, he had gone along with it, seeing as that was apparently what was expected, but no more.

He reached out with one pale hand and grabbed the cane, considering it as he carefully moved around the bed. Though he was no where near as weak as he had let the rest of the household believe, he knew his limits. If he strained himself, the Empire knew that he wouldn't recover quickly.

"And yet…" He opened his hands, and then let his fingers curl back over the cane. There had been something, someone, else. Back on the stairs. He remembered feeling an abrupt loss of control before his head had connected with the stairs. The Empire had been aware of it before, on some level. He knew that the other presence was responsible, in part, for the way he had understood things on the other side of the Wall so quickly. Things that had never before been a part of his world.

"And yet the world has changed, hasn't it?" He wandered to the window, tapping the glass lightly with the cane. Below he could see a quiet street, grey clouds filling the sky, dirty slush piled up on the sidewalks. "Somewhere along the line, the world changed."

The boots felt comfortable around his feet, their worn leather like an old friend. The Empire considered them for a moment. They had been with him since he had found himself in that cold little cell with the man he had spent his existence hating.

"But there's still one thing you owe me, isn't there?" His words were a soft murmur, his breath fogging up the glass that he had moved back to. There was a coat around his shoulders now, liberated from the closet at the far end of the room. His free hand reached up and rested over his heart. Even through the shirt and coat, he imagined that he could feel the scars.

"I want my heart back, you bastard," the Empire said to the air. "And I'm going to rip it from your chest while you watch, just like you did me." His hand wandered back to the cane again, and the Empire's mismatched eyes wandered down to glare at it. A symbol of weakness. Of the farce that he had endured all this time simply to regain enough strength to fulfill his desires.

Crack.

The Empire considered the two halves of the cane in his hand, the ends ragged and splintered. His eyes were empty as he let the shorter of the pieces fall to the floor, the carpet muffling the sound. They remained empty as they flicked back up to consider the window in front of him, and the drop to the ground below.

Even as a sickening smile curled across his lips, even as the Empire raised the longer end of the cane and swung as hard as he could, his eyes remained empty. Dead.

Merciless.

"I don't understand. Why wait until now of all times?" Germany's voice was strangled as he stood rooted to the floor.

Roderich sighed, rising out of his crouch, a short piece of wood in one hand. "I couldn't tell you," the Austrian nation said, turning what was left of Gilbert's cane over in his hands.

"You knew him back when he was… well, when he was like this." Ludwig ran a hand through his hair. His features seemed to have aged years in the last few minutes, and Roderich couldn't blame him. "Where could he be going?"

Austria sighed. "I wish I could tell you. But the more I think about it, the more it seems that he isn't acting the way he should be."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ludwig moved forward at last, picking up a jagged piece of glass from the window ledge.

Roderich poked a few shards of glass with the splintered end of the wood. "Well… if he were purely the Empire… why would none of this frighten him? The technology. He would never have seen a stove before, and yet it didn't bother him. This is completely unfamiliar territory, not to mention unfamiliar faces surround him, and yet he didn't run until now. The food is different, the entire world is different, and yet none of it fazed him." The Austrian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This… regression isn't common, so not much is known about it. But I would hazard to say that the Empire is somehow unconsciously drawing on some of the knowledge that the present-day Gilbert had."

Ludwig took a step away from the window, still holding the shard he had picked up. "I was wondering about that myself," he mumbled absently, eyes still fixed on the road outside, as if he could somehow see where his brother might be going. "In that case… where exactly is he heading?"

Austria, whose mind was already working to figure out how they were going to get the white haired man back safely, glanced up at the German nation, and then to the ragged glass around the edges of the window. Even from here, it was possible to see the blood staining the edges of some of the pieces, where Gilbert had wrenched his shoulders through. He reached up with his free hand to pull a scrap of bloodied fabric off the edge of one.

"That's what we need to figure out," he murmured, as the fragment of cloth fell apart in his fingers, the fibres falling between them to drift to the floor. "I just hope we get there first."

A/N: Also known as the chapter where the Empire decides craziness suits him and goes off on a merry adventure by himself.

So. Yet another painfully slow update from me. I'm happier with this chapter than the last, though it didn't end up going where I thought it would. (Damn it, Empire, you weren't supposed to go running off yet!)

I also realized something a while back. Until very recently, this hasn't been fun to write. The last few chapters... I've written them because I've felt obligated to, not because I'm passionate about the story. That came back somewhat, and is why I was able to get this out when I did, but... I don't know what it is. It isn't writers block, more of a slump. I'll keep slogging through until I recover that passion, though. I will finish this story.

Note that the Prussian Empire has two mindsets. His fake "I'm a normal, sane human being," during which I will refer to him as Gilbert/Prussia, and his actual, crazier personality, during which he will be referred to as the Empire. A lot of people are feeling sorry for him right now, and I just want to remind you that England, while being a dick, has good reason to think he'll go on a murderous rampage.

A special thanks to Hikou no Kokoro, whose awesome review reminded me not to forget some of the loose ends that I've left while writing this monster. I don't think I managed cure my addiction to dashes, but I'm working on it!

And to all of you Russia fans, no, he won't stay whiny and drunk forever. The former, at least, isn't a permanent condition.

Finally, this chapter is dedicated to someone that I hurt recently. I'm sorry in more ways than I can say, but I do think it was for the best, and I sincerely hope that our friendship won't suffer for it.

If you'd read, please review!

- Pheleon