BOOM. Guess who's back with another sporadic and highly overdue update.
This will later be referred to by yours truly as the devil chapter. Not because horrible stuff happens in it, oh no. I'm chill in this chapter, I swear. So is England, come to think of it XD. No, this is the devil chapter because, well, look how long this took me to take care of. I mean really. In my defence, I have not been my at my best, health wise. Though you'd think with all these time I've spent bedridden, I'd have more time on my hands for writing.
Truth is, I actually wrote like a full chapter length section of the story immediately after I posted my last update. I did it at about two in the morning, which is good because I'm most productive at that time (yeah I don't get it either), but is also pretty bad because I know exactly what kinda bullshit I can concoct in the middle of the night. So I eventually went to bed, woke up hours later and went over what I'd written, and realised there was no way in hell I could post any of it within this new chapter.
I'd basically written out the entire big reveal scene where England finally tells the others everything. And like, that would be fine and dandy, except... well, look at the last chapter. Look what happened to England. He is well and truly screwed up from it. There's no way in hell he'd realistically be able to recount it all to the other countries only one chapter later. So I cursed late night me for being an idiot and saved the big reveal for later. The thing is, I have loads written out for future scenes- just not anything that I would be comfortable putting in at this exact point in the story. England needs recovery time before he can even begin with that shit.
So, here we are. Almost two months later. Whoops. To make up for it, here's a longer than normal chapter. The extended length wasn't actually intentional, but I guess it works as an apology. Sorry, guys XD
Warnings: another bout of temporary amnesia and not your usual dose of angst. Yeah, you read that right. I don't spy much angst at all. In fact, what I do spy is multiple characters once again residing so heavily in the denial zone when it comes to their concern for someone else that they can barely manage to verbalise it internally and have to make up excuses when they say too much of truth. Looking at you, France.
Allons-y!
Nineteen
Silent Truce
'No!'
Without any warning, England's head shoots up from his pillow. One second he is motionless, the next he is sitting up straight with a scream erupting from his mouth. And his eyes aren't just wide open- he can feel how hot they are. He knows they're glowing-
On the bedside table next to him, a glass of water shatters. The light on the ceiling also goes out in an instant, plunging the room into shadows as the blinds on the widows are down.
'No! No!' he shrieks hysterically.
His body doesn't hurt anymore, but the pain is still there in his mind. His eyes quickly dart down at his abdomen, scanning for the teeth digging into his skin and the wolf's jaws around his body. But there's nothing there. It's his real body, not the rabbit's. He begins to shudder, letting out short, gasping breaths. His vision is shaking too, blurring and distorting. His stomach is lurching horribly. He brings a shivering hand to rest it on his chest, feeling around for the wounds. His hand comes away free of blood. There's nothing there. No lasting visible damage from his time trapped in another vessel, being torn apart. Nothing. Of course not. It wasn't this body.
He isn't alone. There's a group of people in the room with him, all of whom are standing within a few feet of him. They're blurry and unrecognisable, but they're all silent in shock, and he can just make out the fact that their faces are staring at him.
One of the figures standing closest to him is the first to react. They push past the others near the bed and reach his England's side, quickly reaching out for him. England recoils in horror from the touch. He can feel the heat in his eyes beginning to dim as the energy dies away. He must have accidentally let out some magic in his frenzy upon awakening.
'Brawd, it's alright,' the figure whispers. 'It's just me and the others. You're back in Scotland's ward. It's fine.'
One tall man with tidy blonde hair glances between the shattered glass and the broken bulb. 'How...?'
'His magic,' a red-head says nervously, nodding at England. 'Must have lost control a bit when he panicked just now. It happens.'
From the bed on opposite England, another red-head is already calling out. 'Is he alright? Does he know it's us or is he-?'
'N-no- please-' England chokes, pushing himself away from figure beside him and out of bed, immediately falling to his knees. He pulls himself up again, hands on the bedstead to support himself, surveying the group fearfully. They stand within a few feet of him, eyeing him almost as nervously as he does them.
Despite his vision currently not being perfect, he recognises their basic outlines and of course, their voices. But voices can be deceiving. Some can sound the same as others. The bad can disguise themselves as the good, as easily as anything.
His sight is slowly sharpening. That's good. He'll be able to identify his surroundings and protect himself once he can see properly. He hopes so, anyway.
His legs give way and he falls on all fours, his front end lurching forward and his forehead almost smacking the floor. He cries out, terrified that he can no longer stand.
That's when he feels something grabbing hold of him and a sharp pain in his arm. His head twists round to spot the needle and the vial of whatever the hell it is retracting from his skin.
Someone is just behind him, pulling him back and into their arms. 'Shh,' the figure says. 'It's alright, brawd. It will help. You'll be okay, I promise. Just hold on.'
His vision is blurring again. A shame. He was finally starting to see properly. Now, everything is engulfed in warped, shadowy shapes, growing darker and darker until there is nothing more.
When he opens his eyes, not a large amount of time must have passed, and he thinks his body may be broken. He's not entirely surprised, however. He's sure being crushed to near death by the powerful jaws of a wolf does that to you.
He believes this because although the memories are still right there in his head, consuming his mind, his thoughts are a little sluggish and his body feels dreadfully heavy. His stomach, however, is strangely calm, and he just manages to register that the twisting feeling of fear and panic is absent. He is somehow relaxed. Whatever they've given him has helped.
Although dull and rather distant, some part of him remembers the paranoia. He would panic if he could, incapacitated as he is in this hospital bed. As it happens, the most he can manage is trying to open his mouth slightly and keeping his eyes from closing.
Please. Someone help me. His own words are echoing like a whisper in his head. How the hell did he survive? The wolves had caught him. He was done for, he must have been. He had felt the rabbit's soul die, until it was just him trapped in the body. He can't have lasted much longer than that.
But it was a different body in another world, so very far away.
Did...
Did someone help him?
He was screaming for help in his head, using all the magic that he could. But there can't have been a rescue. There was no one there to save him. So how did he make it out?
'England?' prompts the person who tried reaching out for him the last time he was awake. England stares back at him, recognising the similar features to his own, along with the shaggy brown hair. It's Wales. And all around the room are the others, wearing the same expression: anxious and full of concern.
They heard.
They heard him screaming for them and they came.
He was rescued.
England's eyes fill with tears, though he barely registers this. He tries to sit up from his propped up pillows, but it is to no avail. His body is simply too tired. He is at least glad that the drugs mean he's not struggling to get any hyperventilating under control like he would usually have to do. There's no need for any of that. The other countries are here. He's safe. They saved him.
Wales reaches out again, a lot more tentative than before. A part of England quivers slightly at the thought of being touched, but he brushes it aside immediately. Because this is only a hand, merely the skin of another person colliding gently with his own. It's not a blade, nor the fangs of a wolf. It's not going to hurt him.
He bows his head slightly and accepts his brother's embrace when it comes, squeezing his eyes shut. 'You c-came.'
'What?' Wales whispers in his ear.
England smiles weakly and pulls away, looking at his brother in the eye. He decides to be honest; usually, England is awkward about this sort of thing. Thanking people, showing his real feelings, it's all so unnatural. But he has to; he's so relieved.
'Y-you heard m... me,' he says in a faint voice, his tears leaking slightly at the edges of his eyes. Strangely, he doesn't mind, even though he knows everyone's watching. 'You f-found me w... when I c-called.'
'England?' Ireland says uncertainly. 'What are yeh talking about?'
England swallows, feeling only a little shaky, though now he's rather giddy with joy. 'When I w-was about to d... die. You c-came.'
'About to die?' France echoes. He looks horrified, which is a little strange. France doesn't generally like act like he cares. England doesn't mind this either. He likes that France cares, he likes that they all care. They must do, because they rescued him. They're here with him now.
England nods, glancing back at Wales. 'Y-you heard me. Th... thank you. I t-tried to call out. I w-wasn't sure if it w... worked. I really t... tried.'
'Iggy? What do you mean?' America looks concerned too. The thought of this both gladdens and worries England. America cares. But he's upset. Why's he upset? Was he that worried? Why's he looking at England like this? And why is England shivering again? It's just America.
Then he thinks about Other America, the disguise, the blades and the crimson eyes full of malice-
But the America standing right here has blue eyes and he called England by a ridiculous nickname which is something Other America never did and it may well truly be him-
'Hey... jerk?'
England turns his head and stares in surprise at the source of this new voice. With all these taller countries in the room, it's difficult to spot the little micronation. Sealand is standing next to America, looking confused and a little apprehensive. Why is he here? He's not exactly a big fan of England. Come to think of it, why are so many of them here? He scans the room again. The other members of the G8, plus England's brothers, are all present. Did they all come to save him? That doesn't make sense; as far as England's aware, the majority of the people in the room either resent him or simply don't care. And Scotland is in a hospital bed too; why is that? Did he get hurt somehow helping out?
Something's not adding up. England feels as if there's something he's failing to take into account, something he should be remembering.
'Jerk,' Sealand says again. 'They didn't hear you. I did, remember? And it happened ages ago.'
A few of the other countries stare at Sealand in confusion when he says this, but the micronation ignores them.
This is unnerving. There's been no hint of malice or hostility in anyone's voices or expressions. Are they really that concerned? Even little Sealand, who actually seems quite mature, standing there with an almost pitying look on his face?
And what was that he just said, about no one besides himself hearing England? What does he mean by it was ages ago?
'England-san?' Japan says rather nervously. 'Do you know where you are?'
England blinks. 'A hospital I s-suppose. It l... looks like one.'
The nations share a few worried looks. England tilts his head in confusion. It seems like a perfectly logical answer. He's only just regained consciousness after all. As far as his observational skills are working, this isn't too bad.
'England,' Wales says carefully. 'Can you tell me what year it is?'
England tilts his head, wracking his head. For some reason, the answer doesn't come to him immediately. He decides that this is probably because his mind is so occupied with the vivid flashes of the wolf tearing him apart, and the relief of knowing that he was saved... except they're staring at him like they don't understand what he's saying, and Sealand said something about him being the only one who heard England...
'… 2010,' England says finally as it clicks in his brain. He's been gone for about a month and a half, maybe a little more. It should be late December. One entire month inside the cell, then hours upon hours of torture. That could have lasted for days, for all he knows. It felt like an eternity. Then there was almost three weeks of isolation in the cell once more. And then... the game with the wolves.
The other countries shift uneasily and shoot worrying glances at each other. 'W-what?' England inquires, growing uneasy. Something's not making sense here, and it's not just the other countries' reactions that are causing him to suspect this. It feels as if he's forgetting something, as if something in his mind is being blocked.
'England,' Canada says, even quieter than usual. 'It... it's not 2010.'
England frowns. Alright, so perhaps he's misjudged the amount of time that's passed. Maybe it's early 2011. But even as he thinks this, he knows he's wrong. Something tells him he's got this all wrong.
Italy looks scared. 'You don't remember anything? You've forgotten all this as well?'
As well? England glances around at the different nations, hoping someone will offer an explanation.
'So, not only does he still not remember those five years... but now he's forgotten everything that's happened since he came back?' he hears Wales whisper anxiously to Ireland.
'He must think only a little bit of time's passed since he first went missing,' Ireland mutters. 'His amnesia's gotten even worse. Just when he was starting to remember everything. Damn.'
'I c-can hear you, y... you know,' England snaps, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over him. Whatever it is they've given him, it's leaving him very drowsy. 'Wh... what's going on?'
'What is the last thing you remember?' Russia asks. He seems perfectly serious and solemn, and somehow that creeps England out more than his smile usually would.
'N... no.' Recounting what has just happened to him is not on England's agenda. He's trying very hard to block it out.
'Please, England,' America asks, and England tries not to wince. Despite his usual irritation at being addressed with a ridiculous nickname, despite how America's carefree attitude always used to exasperate him, he almost craves them both now. Anything that distinguishes America from Other America. 'What do you remember?'
'B... Be...' England's eyes fill with tears again. This isn't fair. He doesn't want to talk about it. 'Being t-torn apart.'
The other countries let out an array of sounds, ranging from horrified gasps to cries of disbelief. And this is what finally confirms it for England; they don't know what he's talking about. They have no idea what happened to him, that he his soul was ripped out and trapped in a much smaller form, that he was hunted down as prey and was caught.
They never came to rescue him. But then... how is he here now? How did he survive?
This terrible realisation is accompanied with something else, perhaps even worse: the truth. Wales said something about five years passing. All of a sudden, his more recent memories are coming back to him, like some kind of wall blocking it all is crumbling inside his mind. It is slow at first, like the hazy events a dream finally coming back to him; then it all crashes down at once, in vibrant flashes of images, thoughts and feelings. It's late November. He's been back just over two weeks. He's spent the last five days in the States for the G8 (although he's barely spent any time at all at any of the actual meetings) and he's here at the hospital because Scotland fell from a great height yesterday and he himself is probably in bed because he collapsed in America's arms not long ago and how the bloody hell could he forget any of this?
His eyelids flutter as a lump of misery forms in his throat, and he has just enough time for a tear to squeeze out one eye before they both close and his head slumps back on his pillow.
He drifts in and out of consciousness for a while, barely even managing to open his eyes each time he is awake. For the most part, he listens. The words aren't making much sense a lot of the time and he's not entirely certain if they're really being said or he's dreaming them, but he occasionally hears snippets of conversations.
There are voices he doesn't recognise, probably the doctors and the nurses, discussing dosages and hospital procedures with Ireland and Wales. There are the members of the G8 talking too, though after a while the sounds of their voices grow fewer and far between.
'Ve... why did he forget about his return?' he hears Italy ask in a small voice at one point.
'I... I suppose the memory that came back to him in his dream was quite vivid,' Japan says. 'As if it was completely fresh. He woke up thinking it had just happened, I believe...'
He doesn't hear their voices much after that. Then again, he doesn't spend a whole lot of time awake, so he has no way of knowing how long it's been.
The glaring amber eyes of the wolves meet him in the darkness, but their eyes are just pools of light like at the end of a tunnel, and he can't move an inch. There's no pain. The eyes bring no fear now, just signal a release. The teeth have done their work. In his dreams, England is dead. He lies in the body that isn't his body, twisted and shattered but no longer feeling. Silent and resting, undisturbed now.
At some point in his waking moments, England becomes conscious of new surroundings; he's in another room, much darker than Scotland's one, and certainly a lot quieter. More peaceful, his brain notes, deciding that the hospital staff have probably gotten their way and he's been transferred to a psych ward. The thought doesn't alarm him as much as it should, which is mostly down to the drugs in his system keeping him docile.
During one particular session of consciousness, trapped halfway between awake and asleep, barely able to keep his eyes open, he hears some shuffling at the end of his bed. His heartbeat speeds up, but that's about it; he doesn't even have enough energy to jump.
As it turns out, the source of the noise is someone quite small, sitting on the edge of the bed. Through his blurry vision, England can just about make out the micronation. He has no idea where the majority of the other countries are but he can just make out the muffled sound of Wales's voice outside the room, talking with a doctor.
'Hey, England?' Sealand says, and England blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision up a little. 'Are you awake?'
England tries to say yes, but his voice is raspy and ineffective. Sealand seems to get the message, however.
'I'm not supposed to be in here,' the child mutters, his eyes flickering over to the door. 'Wales said I'm not meant to disturb you, whether you're awake or asleep. But he's busy arguing with the doctors about stuff, so he didn't spot me coming in here.'
At England's raised eyebrows, Sealand elaborates, 'The doctors want to do things their way, but Wales and Ireland and the others won't let them. The G8 had to get all their important IDs out and everything and say they're government people.'
England wonders what it is Wales and the others are trying to stop the doctors from doing. Probably a proper psychological evaluation of England. If the doctors do get their way and carry it out, they'll probably diagnose him as clinically insane and want to keep him here, or transfer him somewhere else.
'Do you remember now? All the recent stuff that you forgot? Or do you still think it's 2010...?' The micronation fidgets with the zip on his coat, not meeting England's eyes.
Although exhausted and rather out of it, England can tell Sealand is uncomfortable at the thought of the alternative.
'… Y-yes,' England manages to murmur.
'So, like... you know what year it is? And what's been going on-'
'I k-know they d... didn't come for me,' England says. 'I know y... you're the one who heard m-me.'
A flash of relief crosses over Sealand's face before he puts on a big smirk and crosses his arms. 'Good, because those dummies were all useless. I, on the other hand, actually did help out. And America. Can you believe he thinks I would be the sidekick? If anyone asks, he's the side-kick, not me!'
And here it is, once again- the strange urge to smile. Both America and Sealand seem to be quite good at causing this. England wonders where America is right now. How much time has passed since he collapsed? He means to ask, but it's an effort just keeping his eyes open, let alone speaking.
'Speaking of, um... stuff that you remember,' Sealand says unexpectedly. 'Was... was it Christmas?'
England tilts his head to the side slightly, unsure of what his little brother is referring to.
'The, um... the memory that came back. When you passed out.' Sealand's voice is small. He seems reluctant to bring it up. 'Was it happening at Christmas? 2010?'
'W-what?'
Sealand's eyes are as big and innocent as ever, yet he seems to understand something that the others never did before. Something tells England that Sealand has some idea of what he remembered, at that disturbs him all the more. After all, Sealand told him that he could hear him crying out.
Did... did he hear me screaming for help when the wolves caught me? Did Sealand have to listen to that?
'I... don't know. Why?' he says hesitantly.
'You said you don't remember much yet, only like the first few weeks. So it could have been, right?'
'W... what happened at C-Christmas?' England dares to ask, fearing the answer.
'I'd been having loads of dreams for a few weeks,' Sealand replies. 'They were all dark and I couldn't really hear anything, and I always forgot them when I woke up. But then they came back to me, and I started hearing your voice- when you were calling for help. It was only like a whisper every time, because the connection was so bad. But I think you were screaming.'
England was in Other England's cell for a month, starting in early November. After that, he'd been strapped to the table for Other America to play with for who knows how long. He had maintained no concept of time during that session. Then he was in the cell again for almost three weeks. After that, it had been the chase with the wolves. As he thinks about it, the amount of time that must have passed matches up.
'I... I think... it m-might have been Christmas, yes.' Oh God. He heard me. He heard what was happening.
Sealand nods, then his mouth slits into a familiar grin. 'You never got it, you know. Something beginning with L.'
'I d-don't think now's the t-time. It was v-very helpful before, but-'
'I'll give you a clue: it's something really important.'
'Sealand, p-please...' England can barely think straight. The room is starting to swim again.
'You said it was really important. You told me that yourself. Back in the hotel, before we went to the hospital, when Ireland and Wales weren't listening to us. I told you I could be responsible, and I am. I remembered it for you,' Sealand finishes proudly.
The last thing England wants to do is search through his memories, because he knows what he'll see. But there has to be more to him than that one horrific memory of the wolves, playing on repeat, so he looks back to something a lot more recent.
When Ireland had brought him back to the hotel after the incident in the park, he had informed everyone that he was ready to talk- but only at the hospital, where Scotland could listen too. Fat lot of good that decision was, England thinks to himself, annoyed that his limbs are so heavy, because honestly he wants nothing more than to smack his own forehead right now. I failed America. I specifically wanted to do it at the hospital with so I could clear his name for everyone to hear, including Scotland. And I failed spectacularly.
And that's when he remembers that there's a solution to this. A solution he came up with after he and Ireland had returned to the hotel, before they all left for the hospital, as a backup plan if things went wrong- which they everything else going on, especially with all the drama at the hospital not long after, this memory has been rather pushed to the side in England's head. Especially since it was only ever supposed to be a last resort. He had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this.
'… L... List,' England says finally, realising that all this time Sealand has been giving him prompts to remember it.
'There, see?' Sealand says rather triumphantly, bouncing up and down a little. 'I guess you're not as bad at this game as I thought you were. So... I should give it to them now?'
England sighs heavily. He's glad Sealand waited long enough to ask him. 'Y-yes. Now. Th... thank you.'
'Okie dokie,' Sealand says with a mock salute.
'Did... did you r-read it?'
'Yeah. Obviously.' Sealand is completely unashamed. Besides, it's not as if he wasn't supposed to read it. 'Why do you think I'm not mad anymore?'
When England squints in confusion, Sealand rolls his eyes and continues, 'You know, I was angry 'cause you basically made it sound like America was a bad guy when we went to see Scotland-'
'That's not- I w-wasn't-'
'I know that now, dummy. Like I said, I read the list.'
Wearily, England opens his mouth to say more but at that moment Wales's voice is calling out to Sealand, asking where he's run off to. Sealand slides off the bed and grins mischievously, aware that if he's caught he'll get scolded for disobeying his brother. It's just as well this little meeting is coming to an end, because despite England's efforts to keep his eyes open, he can already feel himself slipping away.
At the door, Sealand glances back. 'Christmas was the first time I heard you calling,' he admits, and then he's gone.
It takes England seven hours and three more returns to consciousness before he even realises that Sealand never once called him jerk.
'Sea, I told you not to go in there.'
'I wasn't disturbing him. He was already awake.'
The sound of the two siblings' bickering voices rings through the open doorway and the countries look up from their paperwork, hardly surprised anymore by the threat of a distraction. Certain countries in particular, putting aside all the tragic and unfortunate events of the last week, are almost amused by the amount of interruptions that seems to have befallen the G8 recently.
France lets his pen drop onto his papers and leans back in his chair, watching the doorway expectedly. Despite having been late for the meeting today (he spent half an hour or so visiting Scotland this morning), there's not much else for him to write anyway. Unlike nations like America, who have been running around all over the place and skipping meetings, France has been remarkably attentive to this G8 summit, all things considered. As attentive as any of them have been able to be, anyway.
'He was awake? Why didn't you tell me while we were there? I could have spoken to him...'
'He was super tired. He pretty much fell asleep again as I left the room.'
Sealand practically bounces into the meeting room ahead of Wales, who seems rather focused on the news that England was briefly conscious.
'What did he say?' he continues, sharing glances with the members of the G8 who all seem equally intrigued.
'Did he remember what year it is?' Japan asks politely.
'Yep,' Sealand replies, hoisting himself up to sit on the table, right next to America's seat. A few of the more mature countries in the room look on a little disapprovingly, but no one says anything. 'He said he remembered the stuff that's happened since he got back.'
Wales sighs in relief. 'That's good. Was he... upset? Or frightened, or-'
'He seemed pretty chilled-out,' Sealand says with a shrug, rather oblivious to the tense atmosphere. 'It's 'cause of all the drugs you got the doctors to give him, isn't it?'
A completely docile England. In another time, France would have probably found that priceless. Now, he's more relieved than anything else (not that he'll be admitting this to anyone). After all, an incapacitated England is much more manageable than the wild, paranoid, nervous wreck everyone has gotten to know over the last week.
Perhaps in this state, England is actually easier to talk to. Not that he's ever been particularly easy to talk to, especially for France. But one thing everyone would prefer would be for them to finally get through to him in some form or other, and for him to respond with all that needs to be said. They came close, so close, on that morning at the hospital, but of course it all went to hell.
It's been two days since then, and for the most part the G8 excluding Scotland have been diligently catching up on the work they have neglected over the last week. As is a tradition after most international gatherings, the nations are generally granted two weeks abroad for the conferences; one week to complete actual work, and one week of pleasure as a sort of holiday. Their extra week, in this case, isn't so much composed of free time as it is completing the work they failed to do last week.
Things have certainly calmed down in England's absence. While the Brit has been in hospital, there have been no major disruptions and everything has mostly gone back to normal. Even America is acting more and more like his usual self; the weight of Scotland's accusations and his obvious concern for England both seem to have lifted slightly. From what France can tell, something happened in between America and England running off and them returning not long afterwards with England unconscious. England must have said something to put America's mind at ease, because the young nation is certainly back to acting like his cheerful self.
That isn't to say that he is completely his old self again. It's clear that quite a lot is bothering him, and on the evening of England's collapse America even admitted to France, Canada and Japan that none of this would have happened if he hadn't run off in the first place.
'Nonsense,' France had said. 'You were upset, and rightly so. Whatever memory returned to Angleterre would 'ave come back eventually, no matter what the situation.'
'It was a misunderstanding,' America mumbled. 'What Iggy was trying to tell everyone. And I heard it all wrong-'
'I assume whatever it was England-san was trying to tell us, we all heard it wrong,' Japan said evenly.
'Besides, you and England straightened it out,' Canada pointed out, and France had taken note of the particular underlying tone in Canada's voice. The North American brothers certainly knew something that he and Japan didn't, probably due to the fact that Canada and Ireland were the ones who found America and England, while France was stuck with Russia, searching for them in the wrong direction. Canada must have witnessed some scene or other when he and Ireland located them.
France is becoming more and more aware that certain people are in on some kind of secret. Ireland has barely been around the G8 for the last two days because, seeing as he has no obligation to actually be here, he's mostly taken up the role of keeping an eye on both Scotland and England. But he definitely knows something. Whether it's from the incident in the park or it's whatever he and Canada overheard between America and England, Ireland is keeping secrets.
Then of course, there's America and England's youngest brother, the little micronation Sealand. They've been thick as thieves for a couple of years now, something France found both amusing and, in a way, a little bit sad. Not in a pathetic way, absolutely not. But he's always suspected to some degree that their new found friendship was partially, and rather subconsciously substituting for England's 'death'. That isn't to say that Sealand was a replacement. Of course not. France has learnt that, strangely enough, nothing seems to fill that particular hole. From his own personal experience over those five years, France has come to realise that no one argues the way England did, or proves to be such a consistent and, well, decent rival the way England was.
France will admit it, even if it's only in his head: he has missed that particular element of his life. He did miss England. Death seemed like too final and foreign a thing for England of all people. It was barely conceivable. And now it needn't be anymore.
France wonders if he should go to see England. He was in the hospital this morning to see Scotland. He could have gone round to the psych ward, but he didn't. He could go back. He can make up excuses as easily as breathing, of course. He could claim that he finds England's pitiful state amusing, the way he used to do whenever England was ill. But it doesn't quite work like that anymore. England is fragile now, as has become abundantly clear to everyone, and England's fragility isn't a laughing matter. Not even for his oldest rival. If anything, it disturbs France. He's seen England in so many states over the last millennium. But never this... broken.
Not during the English Civil War. Or the plague, when he and France and so many others were sick and bedridden and mourning the losses of their people. Or the Great Fire of London. Or the late 1700s, when he had lost his American colonies and had all of Europe up against him. Or the Great War, where the two were both there on the front lines. Or the Second World War, during the height of the Blitz. Or the collapse of the British Empire.
These things are all heavily linked to the British people themselves, after all. There were of course elements to each one that were naturally personal to England specifically as his own person, but the pain and wounds he suffered during each event were generally coming to him via his own peoples' hardships and suffering, the same way every other nation experiences their peoples' plights.
But this... whatever this is, it's entirely personal. Whatever damage has been done to England, it's been aimed directly at him and not through his people. And it's turned him into a nervous wreck.
France remembers a few nights ago, when he and Canada were tasked with watching over England. He thinks about the scream he heard, and the look of unfathomable terror in England's eyes, like nothing France ever seen in England before. Not even during those cold, silent nights in the trenches.
The fear wasn't just from hallucinations. That's the one thing everyone believes, but France knows there is more. Whatever is going on with England and America, that is down to whatever England's brain is forcing him to see. But that night, when England had looked at France, he wasn't seeing something that wasn't there. There was no lack of recognition. He knew it was France, and he was scared anyway.
No one else knows, and France isn't really too keen on sharing. As far as everyone knows, America is the one England is specifically terrified of. Once, France might have pinned his wish to not tell anyone on him simply being too proud to let anyone know it bothers him. Now, he keeps quiet because there's enough trouble already without him bringing up yet another issue.
He should go and see England. And yet, he probably shouldn't. The last thing England needs is more cause for fear. Look at that, France thinks bitterly. Thinking on behalf of Angleterre. Oh, I would have laughed about it. Five years ago, when I still could.
And yet, he finds himself choosing to do it anyway.
Because when Wales openly admits that he hates leaving England unsupervised in the hospital and that someone should be there, France really does do the unexpected.
He volunteers.
England finally comes to properly, blinking several times with heavy eyelids. He wants to close them again but his mind has other ideas, already raring to go from its sleep. The drugs must be wearing off, although England imagines that he'll be administered another dosage fairly shortly if that is the case.
The twisting feeling in his stomach is back as the unease kicks in. He's known that it's been there since he returned to this world, lingering in the background and flaring up in moments of panic, but never before has he been so overly conscious of it. When he was put out it went away, and now that it's back it seems so very prominent. Nerves, anxiety, paranoia, whatever the hell it is- it's annoying. He frowns.
'You're back,' says a voice beside his bed.
Trapped halfway between the effects of the drugs and sobriety, his shudder is little more than a sharp intake of breath. He twists his head to the right to examine who he has as an audience.
Just one person.
'The frown gave it away,' France says. 'Such a typical expression of yours. You're awake properly now, aren't you?'
England tries to muster up his voice, but he soon realises that if it does come out, it will probably sound like a croak, and he prefers it when France is at the butt end of the frog jokes. As soon as this thought flashes through his mind, some element of contentedness trickles through him. It's familiarity, musing in such a fashion about his old rival. Almost like how it used to be before all of this happened.
He chooses to nod instead of talk, quickly clearing his throat in case he'll need words later.
England must be starting to think more rationally, which truly is a blessing. For the first time in a while, he is actually appreciative of his mind's workings. Because although he remembers how only a few days ago he was convinced France was working with the enemy, it isn't even the first thing that springs to mind now. Then again, England would like to think he's seeing things properly, but it may just be the lingering effects of the drugs keeping him calm; the small trickle of fear is still there.
It's there no matter whom he's confronted with, however, so it's hardly saying much. The doubt lingers behind every rational thought he has, no matter whom it concerns. The one true consolation, aside from the dull lack of concern for his own life (something he knows deep down is wrong), is that if France truly works for the enemy and wants him dead, he could have smothered England with a pillow or something while the Brit was asleep, and snuck out before the staff noticed. He obviously hasn't done that.
France has a newspaper in his hands, which he must have been reading before England woke up. Come to think of it, why is France here?
'You'll be 'appy to know that no reports of Écosse's fall are in the news,' France says neutrally, glancing back to the paper and skipping through the pages idly. 'The American and British governments 'ad to get involved on that one. It's been covered up for now. But 'e's starting to 'eal, a lot faster than a 'uman would. The doctors will grow suspicious soon enough.'
'W... what are you d-doing here?' England asks.
'Well, your frères wanted someone stationed 'ere at all times for whenever you were to wake up,' France says, looking thoroughly bored with the contents of the newspaper. 'Our bosses 'ave granted the G8 our free week 'ere in the States as time to finish up all the work we 'ave missed due to... ah, recent events.' At that last part, he looks pointedly at England with a smirk.
'G-guilty as charged. Why y... you, though?'
'You've been out for two days. Your frères 'ave been watching you for the most part. But they need the occasional break. And I've already completed most of my work.'
'Since w... when are you so efficient?'
'It would seem my productivity 'as increased quite a lot,' France says in that gloating voice he always used to use when he wanted to rub something in England's face. This time however, it causes no annoyance. 'I seem to actually get my work done when I'm not distracted by someone to argue with constantly, as I've learnt over the last five years.'
'… I suppose that m-must be a blessing for you. I b... bet Germany's pleased,' England muses quietly.
'Oui. Though, I must admit, it 'as been a little dull. The world meetings seemed to... lose a little character to them, in a way,' France admits, eyes once more fixed on the newspaper.
England's eyes widen. The way he and France used to do this, it was like a game. Mean comment, snide retort, mean comment, snide retort, on and on like a broken record. And then, every so often, there would be the occasional admittance of something a little more... compassionate than that. Is this France, being kind? He's already here, watching over England, probably of his own volition.
England shakes his head slightly to clear away these thoughts. There are more important things to be focusing on. Now that he's awake properly, he needs to ensure that he's not completely helpless.
He starts by pushing himself up into a sitting position, before lifting his covers back and swinging his legs over the side. He can now see he's been changed into white patient attire: thin, loose, long sleeved shirt and trousers. The dizziness arrives as soon as he's upright, but he blinks a few times and tries to ignore it.
'You really shouldn't be getting up, mon ami,' France says.
'I'm n... not your friend,' England replies instinctively.
'Oh, so we really are resuming the previous nature of our relationship? I thought things were changing now.'
'L-like what?'
'Well, your relationship with Amérique, for instance.'
England closes his eyes briefly. France has been known to hit directly where it matters before. 'Yeah. M... my stupid sodding instincts have s... screwed it all up. I'm scared of him. As y-you can all see.' I was scared of you too, he adds in his head. I wonder if you could tell.
'You're both a lot more open than before-'
'As in I'm o... open about b-being afraid of him. We've established th-this.'
'I suppose your ever present stubbornness is a reassurance of sorts,' France says dryly. 'You're still very much yourself at times. Although these times are unfortunately rare, I must say.'
'Worried now, are we?' England sneers.
'Perhaps I am,' France says defiantly.
England stares at him. France stares right back.
'What I mean,' he continues, without breaking eye contact, 'is that you barely insult each other anymore. You're never been the best at subtlety when it comes to Amérique; for all your jabs, false despise and misplaced emotions, you wear your care for 'im for all to see and always 'ave done. In fact, perhaps it is not you who 'as really changed when it comes to the two of you. Amérique is certainly showing 'is true colours now. 'E's never really been one for being open, 'as 'e? But this is certainly changing. Did you know 'e carried you back to Scotland's 'ospital room? 'E doesn't even deny his concern for your well being.'
The recently returned twisting in England's stomach is as uncomfortable as ever. But he's not entirely convinced that it's just out of fear alone.
'I s... suppose this all amuses you, f-frog,' he says as evenly as he can.
'It intrigues me. And brings me comfort, I suppose,' France says with a shrug. He sounds indifferent, which itself sounds rather forced. 'I prefer it when people are 'onest.'
'What th... the hell do you mean b-by that?' England demands, baffled. On those rare occasions in which France and England actually used to say nice things to each other, it would only ever be for fleeting moments. This one seems to be lasting a lot longer than that. Perhaps they've partaken is some sort of unspoken truce. 'Are y... you seriously invested in this? D-do you actually c-care?'
'Perhaps I do,' France says, glancing up from his newspaper and looking at England dead in the eye with an unreadable expression. 'Perhaps your disappearance and supposed death affected me more than I would ever admit to anyone. Perhaps, 'eaven forbid, it actually, to some degree, upset me. Perhaps I missed my old rival. Perhaps it didn't feel the same without someone to argue with all the time and provide something engaging to those oh so dull meetings.'
'You...'
'Or perhaps,' France says slyly with a playful and taunting spark in his eyes, 'you are still 'eavily drugged and are starting to imagine the words you're 'earing. As if I, of all people, would ever admit something like that. Perish the thought. You 'eard nothing.'
'… Son of a bitch.'
France starts chuckling. 'Now, there's the Angleterre I know.'
'Conceited twat.' But England is giving a weak little laugh now. It hurts his chest a little, but he doesn't really mind much.
In fact, he doesn't mind at all.
To say Sealand is a little subdued is an understatement. It would be very hard to miss the lack of his usual childish bubbly nature today. Wales would have left him the Ireland this afternoon, only Ireland is completely exhausted from taking a voluntary night shift to watch over England at the hospital. The brothers have decided that someone familiar should be there when England awakens in case he panics and confuses the staff. Wales hates the thought of England being unsupervised. But he's the one filling in for Scotland at the G8, and his earlier visit to the hospital has already pushed his work further behind. Besides, France of all people was up for the task. Who would have thought?
'You're absolutely certain England knew what year it was?' Wales says to Sealand that evening as he takes a seat on his bed. They've only just arrived back, and Wales is completely exhausted.
Sealand, who is now quietly amusing himself with a sketchpad at the desk in their room, nods, without looking up from his drawing. 'He still couldn't talk properly. But he can't still be cold from the other day. He's not stuttering from the cold, is he?'
Wales looks down. '… No. No, he isn't,' he says quietly.
Sealand doesn't say anything. He just quietly carries on with his drawing.
'Did he... did he say anything else important?' Wales asks hesitantly.
Again, Sealand nods. 'Didn't Ireland tell you anything?'
'I know he knows something,' Wales replies. 'He said as much. But he also said England should be the one to say it all, when he's ready.'
'He is ready.' Sealand scribbles out something on the paper, observing the mistake with a little pout.
'What?'
'He told me he's ready. We made a secret plan in case he couldn't talk. Pretty smart, huh?' Sealand turns away from his drawing at grins at his brother.
'What do you mean? When?'
'The day he got put in the hospital,' Sealand says. 'Before we left the hotel to go and see Scotland so England could do the speech in front of everyone. We were all getting ready to go and me and England came up with a special plan.'
'Which was what, exactly?' Wales asks.
Sealand looks quite smug. 'Well, he wrote out a list. Of super important stuff that everyone needs to know, in case he didn't get to say it. He said it was only a backup plan. So he gave it to me, 'cause I'm way more responsible than you think, and I already knew most of it. When he got really ill there, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to give it to you yet, 'cause he said it was only supposed to be in emergencies, and if he was definitely sure he wouldn't be able to say all that stuff to you guys. I thought maybe, when he woke up, he might still wanna actually tell you guys himself, but he said it was okay to give you the list. So, here.'
He fishes a crumpled piece of lined paper out of his pocket and hands it out to Wales, who does everything in his power not to snatch it as quickly possible.
'Sea, you... you...'
'Yeah, I know. I saved the day again,' Sealand says proudly with a wide smile. 'I'm gonna be the greatest country in the world some day. Gotta start early.'
Wales laughs as he clutches the piece of paper. 'Thank you, Sealand. I wish you'd given it to me sooner, though.'
'Had to ask him first,' Sealand sighs. ''Cause, you know, he'd probably get all grouchy otherwise. Not that he isn't grouchy anyway. Also, he said that we're the only ones who should be reading it. Me, you, Scotland and Ireland. 'Cause there's stuff on there, magic stuff, that the others won't get. So I couldn't really do it with the others around. He wanted to explain it all properly with everyone else, so you gotta wait a little bit longer and then you guys can back him up and everything when he does tell them.'
This is it. This is finally it. The answers Wales and the others have been begging for, right here in his hands. All of a sudden, Wales is both desperate and afraid. It's what he's wanted since England returned, but it will be bad, whatever it is. Of course it must be, if it's the reason England is the way he is now. He opens up the paper slowly.
'This is the stuff England wanted to say,' Sealand finishes. 'All of it.'
To avoid the A/N being too unbearably long, I've set up a page on my Hetalia Tumblr for this story which you can find here: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song. I'll try and keep a sort of status update on it for this story. I've also included quite a lot of important stuff on it, for anyone who has questions and concerns about the length, plans and content of this story.
The whole thing with there being a list was something I'd been planning a while- which is why I had Sealand doing the 'something beginning with L' thing in chapter 17, as away of distracting England from getting angry with the others, and reminding him of everything England was planning on saying, and that there was a backup. I was initially going to actually write out a scene where two of them planned the list out, but I had already reached the amount I wanted to write for that chapter, so I decided to instead simply reference it later. I'm not particularly happy with the way a lot of this content was written. Like I said, devil chapter.
One thing I do enjoy, however, is writing France and England. It's about time France got the spotlight. In one of my other stories, I had a lot of fun writing out a kind of bromance between them. I love their relationship a lot, no matter what form it's in, romantic or platonic. Here, of course, it's platonic, as the S.S. USUK shall dock in the harbour at some point XD. I just wanted to emphasise that there are plenty of important relationships in this story, and although it's taken me long enough to get round to it, this is certainly one of them.
Oh look. The A/N was unbearably long anyway. There's a surprise XD
Anyway, I hope this was all okay for you guys. I'm not so sure, but at least I do have a lot of content for later on down the road in the story. I'm still in a bad way, I'm afraid, so I'll be getting some rest now XD
Toodles!
