Prepare to cry from purely beautiful fluff.

Warning: Lemon, fluff (not telling who), character death, masturbation, angst.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though


Give

Arthur was curled up in his sleeping bag with the dream catcher against his chest when he felt something move next to him.

"Francis?"

"Oui?"

"I thought we previously discussed this. This is my side of the tent and that side over there is your side."

Francis sighed. "I cannot sleep."

"What for?"

"Bad memories."

Arthur stiffened, feeling like an asshole. "I'm sorry, Francis."

"No need. But I just wish…" Francis felt tears flooding his eyes. "I wish I still didn't feel them… in me." And he started to openly sob.

Arthur was at a loss of what to do. He had never been in a position where Francis had come to him for help. Well… maybe once with that marriage proposal thing, but he wasn't having a complete mental breakdown then.

Arthur sighed and turned over. Francis had his face in his hands. For the first time in Arthur's life, he felt sorry for Francis.

"Francis,"

The man stopped crying a little and took his hands from his face. It was red and his eyes were hazy with tears. He sniffed. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I just… I'm sorry for disturbing you. You should rest—"

"No," Arthur said, looking at him. "I'm sorry for what they did to you. No one deserves that." Then he added with a bit of hesitation. "If there's anything I can do to help…"

Francis blinked at him, surprised to hear Arthur offering him help. Tears pulled at his eyes again. "I can still feel them… each and every one of them." He gave a sob. "I don't want to feel it anymore, Arthur. I can't stand it. I don't think I can… I can…" He calmed himself, taking a deep breath before continuing, "It's better during the day. I don't think about it as much. But at night… when I sleep, I remember. It's as clear in my mind as when it happened… everything… I feel everything… it hurts, I hate it, I hate it." He lost himself in his tears again, miserable.

Arthur felt his heart break for Francis. His sobs were hollow and desperate… the cries of a broken man. He took Francis's hands in his and held them, knowing he would have wanted someone to do the same for him if he was in a similar state.

"What do you want me to do, Francis?"

Francis sniffed and took a few more deep breaths before staring directly at him and saying, "Arthur, I don't want to feel them anymore. I need something else… I want to feel something else. Something that won't hurt me when I remember…" His eyes stung, fearing rejection. He couldn't sleep like this. He feared that he would go crazy with the memories. His voice caught in his throat, and he hoped Arthur could understand what he was asking of him.

It took a few moments for Arthur to process Francis's words, but when he did, he came to only one, unbelievable conclusion. "You… you want me to… fuck you?"

Francis winced at the term. "No, not that. They said that all the time… that's all they did, there was no…" He shook his head and squeezed Arthur's hands. "Non, Arthur, I want you to make love to me." Arthur's heart started to pound. Francis, who had always boasted about being the best in bed, was wanting Arthur to make love to him? "Please. Take the filth away, Arthur. I… I don't think I can ask anyone else… they wouldn't think it right to… please, Arthur, I don't want to feel it anymore. I don't want to feel it!"

He began to cry again. He knew Arthur would reject him. Arthur hated him. Arthur had always hated him. There was no way he would ever

Arthur wriggled out of his sleeping bag and slipped into Francis's. The Frenchman's breath caught as Arthur straddled him.

"W-what? Arthur, you're—"

"Making love to you?" the Briton replied, still getting over the initial shock of the words. "Yes,"

Arthur didn't think what Francis wanted was such a big deal. Arthur was topping, and it seemed right that Francis should want this. And it was only fair that Arthur give it him, he'd been through so much. They did, after all, share a tent. There were other reasons, too, reasons Arthur wasn't yet ready to acknowledge, so he banished the thoughts by pressing his lips to Francis's.

Francis felt his heart skip a beat, and he kissed back, parting his lips to let Arthur's tongue slip in. Fingers threaded through his hair, drawing him close, and Francis was afraid to touch Arthur, afraid that all of this may be some cruel illusion fabricated by his turbulent mind.

But it wasn't fake. It was happening, and Francis could scarcely believe it. His hands trailed up until his arms were wrapped around Arthur's neck.

The Briton's lips moved from Francis's mouth to his neck, gently teasing the skin there, trying to avoid the scars left from the collar. As Francis squirmed and moaned beneath him, Arthur felt his cock slowly harden. He needed this. Just as much as Francis. All of the stress about leading the group and the nightmares… he needed a release, and Francis offered it.

Arthur's hands trailed up Francis's sweater (well, technically Matthew's), and Francis lifted his arms so that it could be pulled off of him. The Briton pulled back to examine Francis's chest, and he felt his stomach roil.

The Frenchman's torso was covered in scars and bruises ranging in color from dark blue to a sickly yellow. Arthur could see the imprint of hands, little crescent-shaped scars that were fingernails digging into flesh. Small circles of burnt skin dotted Francis's chest.

"Christ, Francis," Arthur breathed, brushing a thumb over one of the burns. Francis bit his lip and grunted. Jesus, they put cigarettes out on him. He shook his head. "My God, why didn't you—?"

"I didn't want anyone to worry." Francis replied. "I'm fine, really. They are not that bad…"

"But they are, Francis." Arthur insisted, guilt coiling in his gut. "I'm so sorry. Matthew was right. We should have gotten there sooner. Maybe then this would never have—"

Francis brought his hands up to hold Arthur's face. "None of this is your fault, cher. It was an unfortunate event that no one was expecting. I do not want anyone to take the blame for what happened to me. Especially you."

Arthur blinked. "Why me?" The question was barely a whisper, but Arthur already knew what the answer would be.

Francis smiled a little. "Parce-que je t'aime, Arthur. J'ai depuis longtemps, mais tu lui n'as pas vu."

Arthur felt his face grow hot as he translated. He ran the words through his brain many times, not believing what he was hearing, but the words came out the same every time he did so: Because I love you, Arthur. I have for a long time, but you have not seen it.

He stared, his words stuck in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. Below him, Francis was afraid that he had said too much, that Arthur would stop and reject him. He couldn't stand that, not now, not when he had poured his heart out and Arthur was this close.

"Please," Francis said, holding out his arms. "Please, Arthur."

Arthur felt his heart go out to Francis, and he bent down into his arms. They wrapped around his shoulders, and Arthur's lips were against Francis's scarred neck.

"Non, j'ai lui vu." Francis stiffened in surprise as Arthur muttered French into his ear. "Mais je ne voulais pas y croire."

"Pourquoi?" Francis whispered, scarcely believing his ears.

Arthur chuckled. "Je suis anglais."

Francis smiled. Then Arthur drew back and stared at him. "Are you sure you want this? It might be too soon…"

"Non," Francis snapped, bringing Arthur's face close to his own. "You have made me wait long enough, cher. Don't you dare make me wait any longer."

Arthur gave him a little smile and kissed him again. The disbelief at what he was doing was gone. All he knew was that Francis needed him, and he would do everything in his power to make him forget his horrendous experience.

Arthur's fingers trailed lightly down Francis's body, being sure to avoid the fresh injuries and to be gentle when he touched him. He didn't think anyone with so many hurts could feel pleasure from touching, so he was surprised when Francis emitted a content sigh. He took that as encouragement to move lower, and he bit his lip when he hooked his fingers into Francis's pants.

"Do it," Francis breathed, and Arthur pushed down the Frenchman's pants and underwear. His fingers brushed over Francis's heated erection. Below him, Francis moaned. Arthur then pulled Francis shirt over his head. He sat back, looking over his nude body. Sure, he had seen it before, but now… now he was looking at it with other plans in mind.

He took off his own shirt and shrugged out of his pants and underwear. He then stretched out over Francis, his breath hitching as their skin touched with a burst of heat. Francis's arms went around him. Fingers dug into his skin as Francis rolled his hips against him. Arthur felt his own cock swell.

His lips brushed against Francis's ear. "Preparation?"

"Non," Francis replied, pulling Arthur close to him so that they lay chest-to-chest. He needed them to be as close as possible. He craved the security he felt when Arthur's skin was pressing against his own. "Non, I do not need it."

Arthur pulled back, balancing on his elbows, giving him a worried look. "But… Francis, it will hurt." He spat in his hand, lubing his cock, not caring what Francis said. He wanted there to be at least some level of comfort.

Francis gave him a sad smile. "Nothing I haven't already felt, cher."

Arthur felt tears tug at his eyes. Francis's expression was so forlorn, his eyes so… empty. God, it really had been his fault. Arthur was supposed to be leading the group. And he led them right into a trap, that fucking safehouse… He was determined not to let Francis see him cry. He didn't deserve to cry in front of Francis like something was hurting him when Francis had been hurt more than he could even fathom. He buried his face in Francis's neck and fought to keep his voice steady.

"Oh, Francis, I'm sorry." He lined himself up and pushed in, feeling sick. He was no better than those men who had fucked Francis so cruelly without pause or care for his well-being…

But Francis clung to him, though, and that was enough for Arthur to keep going. "Non, non, cher. Don't be, ah, sorry…"

Arthur didn't respond, too caught up in feeling Francis's torn insides against his cock. And, suddenly, he was rethinking this. It didn't feel right to subject Francis to this while his wounds were still raw and the memories still fresh. But Francis wouldn't let him go, his fingers digging into his skin, and he was moaning his name as he slid home, "Arthur… oh, Angleterre…"

"Francis," Arthur murmured, kissing him gently and stilling inside him. "Are you okay?"

"Oui," Francis replied, moving his hips against him. "And I am ready. Please, move."

Arthur took a deep breath and did so, trying not to feel disgusted with himself as he pulled out and pushed back in. Francis let out a soft moan below him, though Arthur could tell the man was trying to hide his discomfort. "Francis, we don't have to do this. Not now… later…"

"No!" Francis hissed, hugging Arthur tightly to him. "I won't bear it if we stop now. Please, Arthur, don't leave me." Don't leave me like I thought you did. Francis bit his lip. Nails dug into Arthur's skin.

Arthur felt an urge to hold Francis, and he did. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling Francis up so that he sat on his lap. He hugged Francis close to him, face in his shoulder. "I would never leave you like this, Francis." Then he added more quietly, "But I don't want to hurt you."

"You could never hurt me, amour." Francis assured. "I need this… I don't care if it rips me apart, I can't stand the feel of them anymore. I need this, please…"

Arthur began to move. Francis clawed at Arthur's back, pain and pleasure surging through him at once and moans falling from his lips. Arthur kept going, despite how horrible it made him feel, but he wanted Francis to feel better, and that was all that mattered to him at the moment.

It hurt him. Arthur hurt him, and it made Francis feel sick. He hated those men who did this to him. Who'd tore him up inside so that it hurt when Arthur made love to him. They took everything. It wasn't fair. But Francis was determined to get something back, so he rolled his hips in rhythm with Arthur's thrusts, bouncing on his lap, nose buried in Arthur's hair, taking in the scent of the man he loved so that he knew it hurt for a reason.

Arthur was giving him back what security had been taken from him.

Arthur's hand moved between them, stroking Francis's cock to hardness and more. Hot tears were rolling down Francis's face with the pain, but he came, and he came because of Arthur, and that was enough for him. And when Arthur started to move away from him, wanting to pull out, Francis held onto him for dear life and said, "N-no, Arthur. Please, wash it away. I want it all gone, please." Then he added, his voice barely a whisper, "I want you and only you, Arthur."

Arthur felt tears spring to his eyes and with one last thrust, he filled Francis with his essence. "Francis," He held the man tightly to him. Oh God. Had it taken this long, what had happened to Francis, for Arthur to realize that he couldn't live without him?

Arthur laid Francis gently down in the sleeping bag and pulled out of him. He hovered over him, kissing him. "I love you, Francis." It surprised him that the words didn't sound at all foreign.

Francis smiled happily and gave a soft sob. "I know, cher."

And they fell asleep like that, intertwined body and soul.


She was breathing hard. She had been running for hours on end, trying to lose her persuers. But it was gradually coming to light that her efforts were useless. The men kept catching up, and now they almost had her.

But she refused to go down without a fight. This was her nation, and hell if she was just going to roll over and expose her belly to the enemy without so much as a challenge.

She couldn't run anymore. Her strength was waning and her legs were cramping. Pretty soon, she wouldn't be able to even move. She had been on the run for five days straight. No sleep. No rest. Barely any food and water. She was dying, but she refused to believe it.

So she sat there, crouched behind an overflowing dumpster, hoping that its foul stench would drive away the men chasing her. But it was no use. The men rounded the corner of the alley and walked slowly down it, eyes searching every crevice for her, guns cocked in their hands.

"Where are you, you persistent little bitch?"

"Yeah, aren't you tired? Come out so that we can put you to sleep for good."

She smiled in satisfaction as the moon lit up one of the men's faces; a long red scar crossed from his forehead, across his nose, and to his jaw—a little gift she had given him when he'd last had her cornered. But she had no knife now. She'd lost it in her haste when the men had ambushed her back at her safehouse.

The men were almost u[on her, and it became clear in her mind that this time she wouldn't be able to fight them. She was too weak. The thought sickened and ashamed her, and she quickly stood, the men shouting out as she threw open a nearby door and darted into it. A bullet nicked the wood as she pulled it shut behind her. She would have loved to lock it but the bolt was rusted and fell right off as soon as she touched it. So she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.

She was halfway up when the door burst open, making her stumble in surprise, the men charging through and taking a moment to look around before spotting her and rushing to follow her.

"Stop right there, bitch!" one man yelled, and when she didn't, he shot.

She gave a gasping grunt and heaved forward, colliding with the steps. She groaned in pain as she clutched her bleeding thigh, knocking her head on a wooden stair. The men ran up to her and pointed their weapons down at her. When it became clear that she was too busy dealing with her injury to respond, one snatched her up by her hair and pulled her so that her face was inches from his. She could smell his sour breath, see the ragged skin of his scar.

"Tell us where they are."

She glared at him. The man tugged harshly on her hair before repeating, "Tell us where they are, bitch!"

Her only response was spitting a glob of bloody saliva onto his face.

The man fumed and pistol whipped her. She bit her lip in two trying not to cry out as she felt blood pour down the side of her face and she fell on the stairs again. She wouldn't give these bastards the satisfaction of hearing her scream and beg.

"Now," the man said, pressing the barrel of his gun to her forehead. "Are you gonna tell us, or should we convince you some more?"

She laughed. It was a hysterical laugh, a maniacal laugh, a laugh that scared the shit out of her. The laugh of a dead woman. "You bastards think you're gonna get anything out of me? Fuck that!" Then she added in a deadly tone, glaring at them with all her might. "You won't get a word out of me. Do whatever you like, but I'm not telling shit to you."

The other man looked at the one holding the gun to her head. "What're we gonna do with her?"

"She'll be too much of a nuisance to take captive."

"But, Boss said that he doesn't want them—"

"I don't care what the goddamn boss says!" He looked back at the girl. "Let's get rid of her."

The other man looked shocked and frightful. "B-but what're we going to tell Boss?"

"Tell 'im we found her dead."

"And what about her body?"

"The dogs got to her before we could." Then he smirked down at her. "You gave us a good run, girl. I would say that we had a good time, but then again I don't compliment scum. Any last words?"

Knowing that her death was near, the girl lifted her chin and smiled. Blood turned her teeth a grotesque red from her bleeding lip.

"I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."

No sign of recognition passed behind the gunman's eyes, and the girl almost pitied him as a bullet ripped through her skull.


Alfred woke up, screaming.

Ivan's eyes snapped open and he sat up, looking around in shock. Alfred had crawled out of their sleeping bag and was curled up in a ball on the other side of the tent, clutching his chest and gasping. Panicked, the Russian rushed over, grabbing hold of him.

"Alfred? What is wrong?"

But Alfred pushed him away, whimpering and yelping in pain. His fingers dug into his chest, as if trying to rip it open. Horrified, Ivan took hold of Alfred's wrist and pulled. It took a while and a great deal of strength, but the hand eventually came free.

Ivan's stomach turned over. Blood oozed out of a deep cut just above Alfred's heart. Ivan wanted to examine it more, but Alfred's hands darted to it again and he thrashed about so much that Ivan had to move away or risk being kicked.

"It hurts!" Alfred shrieked. "It hurts! It hurts!"

"Alfred, be still!" Ivan said, diving in and pinning his legs down. He straddled the man's abdomen, catching his arms and holding them down. Alfred's head snapped side to side. His eyes were glazed over, wide like a startled horse's, and Ivan feared that he had lost touch with reality.

"Alfred!" Ivan shouted, but the man did not respond, still trying to get out from under him. "Alfred! Stop moving! Look at me!"

"What the bloody hell's going on in there?" Arthur fumed, having just risen to wake everyone else. The Russian had better not be molesting Alfred or he'd kick his arse no matter how intimidating he was. Francis followed him as he unzipped the tent and was met with the sight of Ivan sitting on Alfred, holding him down, the Russian looking near to hysteria.

"Alfred," Ivan said again and shook the man. He ignored the others' stares as more gathered round to watch. "Alfred,"

And then Alfred's eyes flickered shut.

Arthur gave a startled cry and crawled in. When he saw the blood on Alfred's chest, he looked up at Ivan.

"What happened? Is he still alive?" Oh God, is the git still alive?

He would have accused Ivan of doing this to Alfred if it weren't for the Russian's eyes reflecting the same panic within his own. "Da, he's still breathing. But… I-I do not know. I woke up to him screaming and there was blood everywhere. I think he's hurt himself…"

"What?" Arthur could scarcely believe it. Alfred would never hurt himself… would he? He bit his lip.

"Alfred," Arthur said, trying to keep his voice steady as he shook the inert man. "Yank?"

And then Alfred's eyes cracked open. "A-Artie?"

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes… thank God."

Alfred opened his eyes and looked around. "What the hell…?" Then his gaze fell on Ivan. "Why the fuck are you sitting on me?"

"You were thrashing about."

"Well, I'm not now, so could you get off? You're kinda crushing me."

Ivan did so and Alfred sat up. "What ha—ow, what the hell?" He looked down and saw the blood spread on the chest. "Fuck! Whoa, I'm bleeding."

"Nice observation, git." Arthur said, though he couldn't quite make his voice as sarcastic what with the relief at Alfred's well-being. "Lay back, I'm going to get some bandages." And he practically trampled Francis on his way out.

Matthew crawled in in his place. "A-Al? Are you all right?"

"Yeah… sorta, I mean," Alfred shook his head. "I dunno. I remember having this freaky ass dream…"

Matthew bit his lip as he examined his wound. "Al, you didn't…?"

Alfred filled in the rest for himself and glared. "Fuck no! Why the hell would I want to claw my chest out? If I wanted to kill myself, I'd go for my wrists or neck, and I most certainly wouldn't use just my hands!" Though Matthew didn't find it reassuring that Alfred didn't outright deny the fact that he would ever attempt to kill himself, he remained silent.

Arthur returned and began to wrap Alfred's wound. The American sucked air through his teeth as he felt it sting at a touch.

"Sorry," Arthur apologized. "It'll hurt a bit… Alfred, you said you had a dream?"

Alfred scrunched up his nose, trying to remember. "Yeah, I… oh shit."

"What?" Arthur gave him a worried look.

"If I didn't do this, and Ivan didn't, then…" His eyes filled with tears. "Oh Jesus, guys. It's just like Marge and my shoulder."

Matthew's eyes widened. "You mean… you think one of your states died?"

"Think?" Alfred asked incredulously. "This fucking hurt. I know." Then he added with shock. "And… I don't think that was a dream I had. I think… I was seeing it happen."

"Who was it?" Arthur urged. "Do you know?"

"Pa!"

Alfred's head snapped around as he heard Wynston calling for him. The state raced across the camp and shouldered his way inside the tent. His eyes were wide as he examined Alfred. "Shit, Pa, what happened? Ah, jeez, I shouldn't have been out scouting…"

Everyone looked at Alfred, knowing his answer would devastate Wynston.

Alfred looked at him and shook his head. "Winnie, she's gone."

Wynston's eyes widened. "Who?" His voice took on a tremor. "Is it one of my sisters?"

Alfred nodded. "I think so."

Wynston's eyes filled with tears. "Wh-who? Do you know?"

"She gave them a run." Alfred began, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm. "I saw everything through her eyes… she was running from them. Had been for weeks. She was… starving, tired… but she didn't want to give up, she didn't want to roll over. They caught her and asked her where they were. They… that must mean the other states. She wouldn't tell them. They… they shot her and hit her and she wouldn't tell. And then she said…" Alfred squinted his eyes shut as he tried to remember. "That quote… from Hale… Nathan Hale, yeah, I think (1)."

Wynston's began to shake. "Connor?"

"No," Alfred said. "No, not Connecticut." He recalled how the state had loved the quote. "It was one of your sisters… and she was strong and brave." He smiled a bit. "She gave one of the men a nasty cut across his face."

"What did she sound like?" Wynston urged, though his voice was small. He didn't want to know the answer, but at the same time, he had to.

Alfred swallowed as he struggled to remember. Then he let out a sob. "Oh God, it's… it's P-Pen, Penny. It's Penny. I know it. It h-has to be." He put his face in his hands and cried.

Wynston crawled over and hugged Alfred, burying his face in Alfred's shoulder, chest heaving.

Arthur felt his heart speed up. "Wait a second… Penny? You mean, Penelope? Pennsylvania?"

Alfred nodded, unable to respond. After Marge, he couldn't believe how much it hurt. He'd thought that Marge's death would have prepared him for this, but… it only managed to make it worse. He didn't care about the blood still oozing from his wound. For all he knew, he deserved it. He let this world become dangerous for his children, and now he was paying for it.

Arthur just sat there and stared, unable to do anything but struggle not to cry himself. Marge had been different. He hadn't known her. Not like he knew the Thirteen. And he had treated the Thirteen like his own children, that was until they had all sided with Alfred and worked to betray him. The blow was still no less crushing, though, and Arthur could scarcely believe it was Penny, of all states. Penny, the strong one. Penny, the smart one. Penny, who never gave up no matter how many times Arthur had threatened her. Penny, the leader of her northeastern brothers and sisters. It seemed impossible that she should be dead, but then again, what more proof did they need other than the mysterious scar on Alfred's chest?

Then Arthur found his voice and looked around at all the others who were gathered around the tent in a suffocating manner. "Give him some space, will you? Go!"

The others hesitated before dispersing. Beside him, Francis made to leave, but Arthur grabbed hold of his wrist and said, "No, stay. I just…" He couldn't form the words and he held Francis's hand in his, squeezing it. He needed someone to be his rock right now, and it seemed silly that it be Francis for all he went through, but the Frenchman understood and remained where he was, squeezing back.

Matthew sat and watched as Wynston and Alfred cried and felt helpless. He looked at Ivan and found the same feeling behind his eyes. He kept staring at the Russian. I know you love him, Ivan. It's so obvious. But Alfred doesn't know how much. You need to show him. Show him before he forgets about you completely.

Ivan blinked at him, seeming to understand what Matthew was trying to convey through his gaze. But the Russian shook his head and Matthew understood. He wasn't ready. Alfred wasn't ready.

So they both sat and watched as Alfred tried to recover. But Alfred didn't fully want to. He felt like he needed to suffer. That he needed to grieve for Penny or else he wasn't truly honoring her memory. If he didn't cry, he'd feel guilty that he wasn't so sad.

Finally, Alfred decided that he had cried enough. Anger took over his grief and he swallowed his sobs, taking his hands from his face. "We need to get to the capital, Artie."

Arthur stiffened at Alfred's tone. It was stony—stonier than he'd ever heard it. And it scared him. "Alfred…"

"No. We can't go to the south." Alfred said, staring at the side of the tent. "It's only been a few weeks and already two of my states are gone." Then he looked at Arthur. "A few weeks. Imagine waiting a whole season, Artie. I can't do it. I'll go insane. We need to stop them."

Arthur's heart dropped. He'd thought he'd already come to a compromise about this subject, but apparently not. "Alfred, I understand your urgency, but we have others to think about—"

"What are we doing, Art?" Alfred asked, ignoring him. "What are we doing out here?"

"Surviving, trying to get by—"

"We're running, Artie." Alfred said. "We can't run. We're nations."

Arthur shook his head, and he loathed the words coming out of his mouth. "But we're not nations anymore, Alfred."

"Who the fuck cares?" Alfred flashed, and Arthur blinked at his ferocity. "That's just a title. But we still have jobs. What about all those people out there who are relying on us to set things right? Do you think they have time to wait? How many people do you think will die so that we can stay warm for a few months?"

Arthur stared at him, mouth agape. He didn't know what to say. For once, Alfred had rendered him speechless. It was true. All of it. And the fact that Arthur was realizing this now, after he had been so determined to lead them south, was making him doubt his leadership. It frustrated him that Alfred of all people realized this long before he had, had to actually tell him. He sighed and said, "You're right, Alfred. We will not achieve anything by running away. Whatever it takes, we will end this. Too many people are looking to us to make it happen."

And so a new plan was enacted, Arthur gathering everyone around to listen. He shot down any and all objections, calling the protestors cowards or heartless. After this, no one dared suggest anything that deviated from the new plan.


The new plan: Go through Kansas and Nebraska, but do not follow the Mississippi down. Instead, they would angle toward Lake Michigan and navigate the Great Lakes by boat to Lake Erie. Then, if they managed to get that far, go southeast until they reached the Potomac River. Depending on how crowded the area was, they would either sneak through the city or navigate the river into D.C. From there, they would attempt to overthrow the Organization, though, they realized, they needed a much stronger force to help them. They needed the loyals, but they could not risk going into any big city or town to seek them out until they were incredibly close to the capital or else risk being found out by the Organization. That part of their plan was based purely on luck.

Gilbert wanted to call the plan "Operation Awesome", but Sadiq suggested it be called "Operation Trojan" after a Greek war of the same name, a little nod to Heracles whom Sadiq said, despite being a gigantic pain in the ass, had been a formidable opponent and deserved some form of respect. After that, Sadiq's face went red and he shut up for a while, though Gilbert complained until Ivan threatened (with his sickly-sweet smile) to reenact the Prussian's earlier fainting spell with his pipe.

"Ve~I think the name's perfect." Feliciano said. "They took what was ours, and they won't know what's hit them. Just like the story!"

After finding out that another one of his sisters was dead, Wynston told Alfred that he was going to take a walk through the woods for a little while. Alfred was worried and insisted that Wynston stay close, but Wynston refused and wandered off.

Alfred watched him go and was about to follow him secretly, but Matthew put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Not a good idea, Al. You know how Wynston likes to be alone sometimes. Let him cope."

"All my fucking fault." Alfred muttered, and before Matthew could say anything, Alfred walked away. Matthew didn't want to bring up any sensitive stuff or start a fight now. Not after just getting Alfred's trust back.

Sadiq watched Matthew stare worriedly after Alfred as his brother ducked into his tent to pack up. A blush trailed across his cheeks as the Canadian met his eyes for a moment before he marched off to his own tent to do the same. Sadiq's eyes followed him, and he swallowed. Did Matthew notice? Did he suspect?

Last night, Sadiq had limped out to take a leak (and to find out where the fuck Matthew had gotten off to, because his ankle hurt like hell and he needed more drugs), when he had to duck behind a tree to avoid running into Alfred. The American, luckily for him, seemed too distracted to notice him. Puzzled at what had gotten Alfred so worked up, Sadiq walked to where Alfred had come from, and his mouth dropped open.

There was Matthew—cute, sweet, timid Matthew—moving his hand up and down his cock. Sadiq couldn't help but be transfixed. It seemed such an anomaly to him. That and the Canadian's cock was huge. He had his pants pushed down to expose it, and he was spread out on the grass, thighs apart and breaths heavy. And just when Sadiq thought it couldn't possibly get any hotter, Matthew hiked up his shirt, licked his fingers, and rolled them over his nipples until they were hard and glistening with saliva.

Sadiq threw a bone. A big one. And he just barely stopped himself when he found that his hand was slowly snaking down into his own pants. His eyes were fixated on Matthew, the moans falling from his lips making his cock throb. It was so hard to ignore it, and his balls began to get sore from neglect.

And then Matthew arched his back, hand rapidly moving over his length, moaning as he came. The boy hadn't jerked off for some time, because it was quite a lot that came out of him.

Sadiq bit his lip to hide his own moans, and he didn't keep his hand from wandering down to rub at his pants-covered crotch. He could feel his heated flesh pulsing beneath the material, and, oh fuck, he wanted to rub one off right there, but he was afraid Matthew would catch him.

So he'd made his way back through the woods and dove into his tent, releasing his cock and pumping it like there was no tomorrow. His orgasm was one of the most satisfying he'd had in months, and only a few minutes later Matthew returned, slipping into his sleeping bag and dozing off without a second look at Sadiq, who was watching his face and trying to remember how sexy it had looked when he had come.

Only now that the high was gone did Sadiq think how much of a creeper he had been the night before. Then again, it was well worth it. Thank you, tiny bladder…

Gilbert had already packed. Ever since the night Lovino had explained his true intentions to him, he had not been able to sleep. As he lay awake, he mulled angrily over how the Italian had taken advantage of him and of how much a shitty friend he was to Toni for sleeping with his lover. When he tried to sleep, he dreamt about his night with Lovino, and he was shunted out of his slumber, sweating and hard. It only made him feel guilty.

As so, he had packed the night before. Now he sat there, cross-legged, staring at the side of the tent. He barely noticed Ludwig as he crawled in to pack his own things.

Ludwig caught the vacant look in Gilbert's eyes and he instantly became concerned. Rarely did he ever see his brother so distant. "East, are you okay?"

When Gilbert didn't respond, Ludwig said louder, "East?"

"Was?" Gilbert asked, snapping out of his trance and glancing over at Ludwig. "Nothing,"

"Nein," Ludwig insisted. "It's something."

Gilbert took a deep breath and sighed, "Worried about being out on the fucking plains…"

Ludwig continued to stare at him, knowing he was lying. But Gilbert ignored him. "Ja, we all are. But that isn't what you're worried most about."

Gilbert suddenly flashed him a glare. "I'm not a fucking criminal to be interrogated, so lay off!" Ludwig blinked, shocked, as Gilbert left the tent, dragging his backpack out. Outside, everyone was staring at him. He glowered at them all. Lovino stood beside his tent, staring at him like he was crazy. Gilbert shot daggers at him until Lovino looked away, his expression that of terror.

He thought Gilbert would out him in front of everyone.

Gilbert wanted to do just that. Maybe then the little Italian fuck would learn his lesson. But Gilbert's throat constricted, and he couldn't find the words. With a growl of frustration, he said, "What are all of you looking at? Let's go!"


Translations:

Non, j'ai lui vu. Mais je ne voulais pas y croire-No, I have seen it. But I did not want to believe it.

Je suis anglais-I am English.

References:

1-Nathan Hale was a Continental soldier during the American Revolution who volunteered to gather intelligence in New York City, but was captured by the British and hanged. He was born in Connecticut. The quote mentioned were his last words.

A Word From the Writer: Prussia's going off the deep end fast and then you got states dying, relationships forming, a rift forming in the group... just a big hot mess. Then again, the world is a hot mess in the first place. No avoiding getting stuck in that. And what's up with creeping Turkey? I dunno, ever since he stalked Romano, I've always seen him as a bit of a creeper. And I did include some sort of masturbation scene. There, are you happy? XD

And, aw, that was perhaps one of the best fluff/lemon scenes I've ever written. And to believe it was with FrUK. I make miracles happen, people.