Hello there, I got a new chapter ready~

At first I thought this was about how long the whole story would be: roughly 25 chapters. But guess what? There's still five years left for me to describe in here!...*sigh* So it's going to be long. Not to mention, I'm already considering a sequel, Trouble, about (obviously) the Troubles in Northern Ireland.

Also, since it'll be Halloween, I'm also considering doing a little Halloween spin-off like Drinking Together. That is, if I manage to get enough inspiration in time -_-'

So... yup. There's going to be a lot yet. Also, as usual, thank you for the review, That One Guest! If you liked that bonding, you'll like this chapter as well, I'm sure. Not too much angst again quite yet.

I do not own Hetalia.

The following morning, when Ireland decided to take a quick shower before going downstairs, Wales' words of the evening before were still stuck in his head. So, after taking off his shirt, he went to stand in front of the mirror, and he was shocked with what he saw. Damn, his little brother was right. His ribs were awfully visible, he could count them just looking at them. And indeed, his shoulders were rather thin as well. When had this happened? It was the truth that he had rarely skipped a meal, but then again, what was his definition of 'a meal' these days? One slice of bread? A mere apple? Probably not much more than that, now that he thought about it. He'd have to work on that as well. His list was only growing: the cutting had priority, he had to stop that as soon as possible. Then there was the alcohol and the numbness, and now his weight, or rather, the lack of it. "What have I gotten myself into...?" he sighed to himself as he turned on the shower. "Of all the deep, dark pits, I've reached the bottom of them all..." Except for drugs, then. At least he hadn't resorted to that as well, because then he'd just about have given up on himself by now. But, he told himself, he'd finally managed to cry the previous night, however shortly. What a thing to be happy about, but he was. It meant the emotions weren't yet locked up inside of him, never to be let out. It wasn't too late yet. "Oh, who am I kidding," he muttered to himself, stepping under the steady stream of warm water. "It was already 'too late' when this whole mess started..."

England was already downstairs, preparing the breakfast table. With all the economical trouble due to the war, they didn't really have anything to make a real Christmas feast for breakfast or dinner, but they'd try. Most important was that at least now, the whole family was together, which wasn't what they'd expected. They had honestly thought Ireland wouldn't come.

"Wha', so ye nearly drowned a second time?" Scotland asked as his little brother told him about what happened the day he came to Ireland. "See the importance of swimming now, laddie? Tell ye what, when this war ends, I'll teach ye." England rolled his eyes and sighed. "You're not even letting me finish," he muttered to his older brother, who snickered and shook his head. Oh, how he loved to tease his brothers, and infuriate them in the process. England just went on, "What I tried to tell you, is that Cearul actually jumped right in after me! I thought he'd let me drown, probably thinking something along the lines of 'good riddance', but he didn't!" Scotland shook his head now, protesting, "O'course not, he'd never do that! Look, lad, he might hate ye as a country -and with reason, I have to admit- but as a brother, he loves ye more than anythin'. Seems to be that way with everyone in this family: we cannae stand the bloody sight of eachother, but woe to all who dare touch our brothers! Oh, they're gonna get their bloody arses kicked straight into oblivion, 'specially if they do something to our little brothers!" He laughed for a moment and looked at England, his blue eyes filled with warmth. "I have that too, y'know. Bein' more protective over you an' Dyland than I am of Cearul. An' Dylan's protective of you more than of me an' Cearul! O'course, the Old Man has that with all of us, bein' the oldest. If ye had a younger sibling, Artie, ye would understand just fine, no need to be so surprised o'what he did, savin' ye like that."

England just nodded and agreed softly. "Well, I do know that feeling with my colonies and ex-colonies, yes. Especially America..." Then suddenly the door opened and Wales came in, rubbing his eyes and grumbling a bit. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "Ye should've woken me... bastards." Scotland only smiled wider and said in a sing-song voice, "Merry Christmas to you, too, laddie!" Wales only muttered back a response, lacking all sense of the holiday's 'merriness'. But alas, that was simply Wales during mornings. He just sat down at the table, slumped over it with his eyes closed. Well, England concluded, someone didn't have a good night's sleep. "Have ye seen Cearul 'lready?" Scotland asked his younger brother as he placed four cups on the table. " 'M hungry. Lad really has to come down soon, so we can fin'ly eat!" Wales hummed and answered quickly and quietly that he was taking a shower, resulting in Scotland grunting. "Damnit, Cearul, be quick 'bout it!"

"Did ye say some'in, Al?" suddenly came Ireland's voice, who entered the kitchen with a towel still in his hand, his ginger hair dark with water. "I'm here, if ye hadn't noticed." He sat down on the chair beside Wales and continued drying his hair off with the towel quickly. "So dun'worry lad: my Christmas present to ye this year, is ye bein' able to eat before ye starve."

"Thank ye, Old Man!" Scotland laughed, taking his place at the table and grabbing some bread for himself instantly. England followed him more slowly and wished his oldest brother a merry Christmas quietly before beginning to eat as well, and as did Ireland. Only Wales didn't seem in the mood for breakfast, with his face still planted on the table and not looking up for even a second. Neither of the three others really wanted to say anything to him. Wales was, after all, known for his morning moodswings: either he woke up as the cheeriest person alive, or he'd prefer to skin you alive if you tried to talk to him. This morning, even though it was a holiday, appeared to be the latter. They realised how wrong they were about that a few minutes later, when suddenly there was a soft snore in the room. Of course he'd fallen back asleep just like that! Scotland began laughing loudly, leaning over the table and patting his little brother on the shoulder. "Oi, laddie!" he managed to say between the laughter. "Now's not the time for that, y'know? C'mon, wake up Dylan!"

Wales opened his eyes slowly, grunting a bit. He did not like to be woken at all. But then he sniffed, and asked drowsily, " 'S that egg...?" Scotland just laughed again, this time softer, and held out the bowl with freshly cooked eggs to him. "There ye go, lad. Dun'fall asleep in the middle of eatin' it, will ye?" Wales hummed, sticking his hand into the bowl without much grace, grabbing one of the eggs and then placed it onto his plate... only to lie down on it again, apparently using the egg as his pillow. Ireland, too, chuckled softly at this, pulled his little brother up against the back of his chair and kept him in place by holding a hand against his chest and shoulder. "Open yer eyes, lad," he said softly, smiling. "C'mon now, open them up. It's ten in the morning, ye wee idiot." Slowly, Wales obeyed, blinking open his eyes again, though not responding in any other way. Ireland then quickly turned to England, who sat closest to the pot, and told him, "Arthur, quick, give 'im a cup o'coffee!" England nodded and poured a cup for his older brother, handing it to Ireland, who added a teaspoon of sugar to it. "There," he said almost triumphantically. "That oughta wake 'im up!"

Much as with the egg, Wales sniffed the cup that was placed in front of him, grabbing it and taking a sip. After the fourth sip, his eyes opened slightly further, and his brothers felt assured that at least he wouldn't fall asleep again now. "Well, now that we're all here," England said, surpressing laughter as he looked at Wales. "Merry Christmas, brothers. Let's hope it's the last we have to spend during this war!" Scotland nodded, and Ireland mumbled a soft, "Amen to that, Artie," while Wales gave a soft, agreeing hum, still not quite awake. When they were halfway through their breakfast, the phone rang, and Ireland was the one to answer it. A way too familiar, way too annoying voice spoke the moment he picked the phone up. "Hey there, British dude! Merry Christmas, man!" Ireland held the phone away from his ear for a moment, then answered, "You too, Alfred. An' it's the 'Irish dude' yer talkin' to." He shook his head a bit, both annoyed and amused, then asked, "An' fer Heaven's sake, why're ye callin' this early? Isn't it nighttime at yer place?"

"It is, but I just came home from this amazing party, so I figured I'd call you guys! Tell the three British dudes I said hi, okay? Well, I'm goin' now, gotta get some sleep!" And with that, he just ended the call, and Ireland placed the phone back before going back to his chair. "Alfred says hi," he sighed, sitting down again. "And wishes y'all a good holiday." As he watched his plate, where only half a slice of bread still lay, he wondered if that would be enough for breakfast: one egg, one slice of bread. Probably not, considering how thin he was already. Almost reluctantly, he grabbed a second slice of bread and smeared some butter onto it. Surely that must be enough? After all, these were all things he'd had to work on graduadly. Lessen the alcohol intake and the cutting first, work towards stopping. Slowly starting to eat properly again, nothing too fast. If he could manage those things, then at least physically, he should be alright again soon. Right?

The second challenge for the Irishman came later in the afternoon, when all four sat in the livingroom and were chatting away, and Scotland suddenly went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine and four glasses. "This is shit fer stuck-up wee pricks," he laughed as he opened the bottle. "Which we're not. Best get rid of it as soon as possible, aye? Artie, next time, go get some beer instead." England mocked a small pout as he stared at his brother and mumbled, "And here I thought I was finally doing something right! It's a holiday, one might expect to have something a little fancier than beer, right?" Scotland chuckled, pouring glasses for all four of them, then raised his own for a small toast. "To a good ending of a terrible year, aye? Let's hope the next will see the end of all this chaos!" Wales, England and Ireland all agreed, tapped their glasses against his and then eachother's, and began drinking it. This wine, he had to admit, was tasty stuff. A very rich flavour... England had outdone himself with this one. It was probably from somewhere halfway into the last century, nearly fifty years old at least. And God, how he loved that slight burning of alcohol down his throat. The whole family had always claimed to have alcohol in their veins instead of blood, and it was probably true as well. They drank it as though it were water. But now, England shot his older brother a glance that said, 'Watch yourself', and Ireland gave a tiny, quick nod. He would not do anything stupid this evening, he'd make sure of that.

Scotland noticed how his older brother was almost anxious with the glass of wine in his hands, almost as if he was doing something illegal and hoped he wouldn't get caught. Especially later, after he'd finished his first glass and Scotland offered him a second one, he hesitated a moment before nodding and thanking him. He paled a bit as he was drinking, a hint of fear in his eyes even though he was smiling and laughing along with his younger brothers. How obvious must it be, Scotland wondered, if even he could see it? Eventually he leaned forward to him a bit and asked, "Hey, Old Man, ye alright?" Ireland looked up quickly, startled by this sudden question, and stammered, "Y-yes, I... I'm fine. I just think... perhaps I'm not exactly over that illness quite yet. I feel a little... off, but fine." England blinked at him with slightly narrowed eyes and put in, "Well, it wouldn't surprise me. That was some serious pneumonia, and even for a nation, healing in just two days is quick." He then leaned over to him and placed his hand on his forehead to check his temperature. After a few moments he pulled back and shook his head. "Just a little bit warm, nothing bad. At you worst, you were just over 40 degrees, so this is nothing." Something about the way he was talking seemed off to Scotland. In his year of blindness, he'd learned to pick up really small details in another's voice: tiny shivers when nervous, high-pitched undertone when afraid, a certain vibration when angry or really on the edge of tears. And here he heard the shiver of a lie: Ireland was wearing his masks, like Wales had mentioned the evening before, and England was in on the lie. He just wondered... why would they both lie about Ireland's condition, wether physical or mental? But he said nothing about it and leaned back in his chair again, inspecting the rest of the evening with narrowed eyes. Just what was going on here?

Somewhere early in the morning, still at night, Wales lay awake in his bed. He, too, had noticed the thing going on between England and Ireland, and he was constantly worrying about it. They were hiding something, something important, and he was determined to find out. When he looked at his clock and could just make out the time in the darkness of his room, he sighed and got out of bed. It was two in the morning and he hadn't slept a wink yet. Quietly, he made his way to the bathroom to drink a bit of water, then went over to England's bedroom. Opening the door just the slightest, he saw his little brother sprawled out on his bed, fast asleep. At least, he concluded from this, what he was hiding wasn't so bad his conscience kept him awake at night. That was reassuring. He then passed the door to the guest room Scotland was occupying, and he didn't even have to open the door there to know how his older brother was doing: snoring away, like every night. He wasn't so loud that he kept others awake at night, but he sure wasn't a quiet sleeper. Wales didn't dawdle there too long as he went on to the end of the hall, where Ireland slept. The moment he opened the door, he was met with soft mumbling and occasional moaning, and he looked at his brother instantly. He was tossing around, rolling from one side to the other, frowning in his sleep and his lips moving almost soundlessly. Wales closed the door carefully and knelt down next to him. Much like his younger brother had done the evening before, he placed his hand on his forehead: after all, this was exactly the way England had been acting in his sleep a year ago when he'd been so sick for so long. But though his skin was clammy, it wasn't warm, so he didn't have a fever.

"What's going on in there, brother?" he sighed, whispering as he held his hand on his brother's head. He looked absolutely terrified. "Hm? Having a nightmare, are we? Well don't worry, everything's alright." He then sat down on the edge of his bed, watching him as he kept tossing and turning, and tried stroking his hair a bit to calm him down as he kept whispering to him. He didn't talk about anything in particular, but just the sound of a familiar voice might be calming, he figured. At one point, Ireland began pleading in his sleep, his voice almost inaudible. "Nnn...nnnooo, pleassse... Nnnoo..." He sounded so agonised, Wales let his shoulder hang and sighed, feeling bad for him. "What are they doing to you, brother?" he whispered. "What are they doing that's this bad?" Suddenly, Ireland yelped in fear or pain or both, and began thrashing about even more. Slightly panicking, Wales leaned over him and held his shoulders. When that didn't help keep him still quite yet, he lay down on his chest, keeping his arms in place to stop him from moving. At this rate, he might hurt himself if Wales didn't stop him. "P-please, ssstop," he pleaded desperately. "S-ssstop iiiit..." Wales bit his lip as his brother squirmed beneath him, but he didn't let go. What was he dreaming about that was so terrifying? "Don't do it..." the sleeping Irishman went on, his voice quivering. "Don't do it... Put it down..." Put what down? Wales wondered. A weapon? A-a gun, or a sword, or a knife? What are they doing to you? Something told him his way of thinking wasn't quite correct, but he didn't know what else it could be. But Ireland soon gave him an idea. "I c-can't... shouldn't... nnn...no..." Wales looked at him with widened eyes as he suddenly understood. What is he doing to himself...?

In the darkness, he could see tears shimmering in the corners of Ireland's eyes, and he leaned closer to him, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Oh, Cearul, I promise you, it's alright... It's alright, brother." Eventually, Ireland stopped squirming, and Wales let go of him again. He was still shaking all over, and the tears that had been in his eyes now trailed down his cheeks as he shakily whispered, "I'm ssso sssoooorrryyy..." His voice was slurred with sleep, but he just kept on apologising. "So, so sssorryyy... I'm sorry..."

"Sorry for what, Cearul?" Wales asked, then shook his head. No, that wouldn't help his brother at all. He made up his mind and whispered, "You don't have to be sorry, brother dear. You've done nothing wrong, I promise. No one's angry with you, you didn't do anything wrong. It's okay, you don't have to be sorry. Everything's fine." Ireland just kept on sniffling softly, shaking his head slowly, not believing what his little brother told him. Still, Wales kept reassuring him that everything was okay. And then, suddenly, he realised that this was exactly what lay beneath all those masks his brother wore during the day. Beneath all the happiness, the smiles and the 'I'm fine's, he was exactly this: shattered and lost in misery. He brought his hand to his head again, stroking his brother's ginger hair rythmically as he kept on whispering to him. "You'll be fine, Cearul," he promised him. "No one is angry with you, I swear. No one will hurt you, no one hates you. We all love you. You're the most important thing in the world to us, do you know that? Our big brother. We love you so much, so please, don't you worry about anything. None of that will ever change, no matter what."

It took him some time before he'd gotten Ireland calm again, but once he was, the Irishman looked as if nothing had happened and he'd slept that calmly all night. By now, Wales was exhausted, and he couldn't even bring himself to get up anymore. With a glance at his sleeping brother, he sighed, asking, "Say, Cearul? Would you..." He yawned, then finished. "Would you mind if I slept here with you tonight?" After a little while, Ireland shook his head a little, shifting in his sleep as if to make room for his little brother. Wales smiled a little, then got under the cover beside his older brother, putting his arms around him. He could hear Ireland sigh contently, and he relaxed completely at this, his nightmares far away by now. Wales, too, quickly fell into a deep sleep, smiling as he thought to himself, I did well...

So, I hope you liked this little bit of fluff before things go downhill again. I sure enjoyed writing it~! Having a very graphic imagination like mine, things can be a bit... awkward or even creepy when writing. But with scenes like this, it's only cute and warm and fluffy inside my mind, so I really enjoy these scenes!

Thank you very much for reading, and please leave a review~! (really people, it's not that much asked, right...? *insert puppy-dog eyes here*)