HAPPY 5TH OF NOVEMBER, Y'ALL! And I actually did get it out on time... for this time zone, anyway lmao.

Anywho, this would have come out a bit earlier but I actually spent most of the day writing the chapter, because I left it 'til the last minute as always. I tried to include all the pre-world meeting scenes in this chapter cuz I really want to get round to writing that scene, and I guess this means I can actually do it in the next chapter, which I'm super psyched about.

Am I celebrating the fifth? Does going out into the garden to stare at some distant fireworks and a yellow moon count? I guess I'm just celebrating with this update, and I'm quite content with that.

Warnings: ... this one ain't so bad, actually. By my standards. Some angsty, self-deprecating thoughts, but then, I am writing England. The guy is canonically self-critical. I take whatever I can get to fuel the angst. Sealand's still pretty traumatised. Other than that, I'd call this content fairly light. There's even fluff at the end. Or like. The closest thing someone like me can get to fluff.

Allons-y!


Twenty-Four

Crumbling Cage

There are three things England knows for certain.

The first is that they call each other Al, Ollie and Franny. In the world he is from, nations tend to call each other by their true names, unless out in public among unsuspecting humans. Of course, there are plenty of countries from different parts of the world who do not abide to these rules, due to their own personal reasons or cultural differences, but for the most part the nations of England's world refer to each other by their country names. Things seem different here. Not once has he heard these three call each other by their true names. Perhaps that's simply how things work in this world.

'Al' and 'Franny' could very well be short for Alfred and Francis, which are America and France's human names. Then again, Other England seems to be called 'Ollie', which is probably short for Oliver. England's human name, meanwhile, is Arthur. So perhaps, aside from the differences in appearance and extremely prominent contrasts in personalities when compared to England and the countries in his world, there may be other attributes that these nations have as opposed to their counterparts.

Maybe it's important, maybe it isn't. But if there's one thing that England can choose to do, it's to learn. To know them, to gradually learn everything about them, step by step. Their strengths, their weaknesses, any opening he might find.

The second thing he knows is that there was a war. Other America, Al, pointed out on that street that Ollie never properly cleaned up after it. Ollie's defence was that his efforts were focused elsewhere. England almost dares to ask them about it, but he knows immediately that, even with his newfound courage at the result of his rage, he is still too afraid to risk it. Besides, he still won't speak- because he knows his words will come out in a jumbled mess, and because he knows they want him to. This is one bit of defiance that he is willing to risk. They won't sway him from this, not unless they have some new horrific threat in store for him, one that will force him to obey them out of fear.

England wouldn't put it past them to do something like that. He knows they're always preparing for the next game.

Judging by the architecture on the street and his own speculation on how long it has been in this decayed state, England theorises on what the war in question might have been. His best guess is that this world had its own Second World War, which, if the given title is accurate, would also suggest they had a First World War too. Perhaps their world's history is aligned with his own world's. Maybe that's one similarity both dimensions have.

Perhaps the Second World War ended differently here, or maybe the aftermath took a different path. He questions whether their two worlds were ever similar, and if this war they speak of is what set the difference between them. After all, his world certainly isn't in a condition such as this. But he could be wrong in thinking that this is the point in history in which the states of both worlds diverged from each other. After all, Other England said that the burning ritual they hold every fifth of November for London is tradition. And maybe they've been doing that since the Gunpowder Plot itself. Perhaps the two dimensions and the people in them have been infinitely different since the very beginning.

Except, he knows that this isn't quite true. Not for the nations themselves.

Because the third thing he knows is that these other nations weren't always like this. They once felt things, once were what they now consider weak. Other America said as much out on the street.

I can't feel shit like that anymore. None of us can, not for years. That's why we don't fall into traps for the weak. 'Cause we're not weak. We made it, and we did it well. Survival of the fittest and all that.

England wonders if they know he listens. That he takes in what they say. That he learns. Is he meant to? Do they want him to? They're hardly keeping it a secret, after all.

He thinks back to that first night in this world, on the fifth of November, as London burned. He remembers Other England standing there, cold, apathetic, unfeeling. As if the pain of his capital didn't even reach him. As if it wasn't even a part of him.

England, on the other hand, felt it all. Almost like he had taken his counterpart's place, as if he'd assumed the other nation's role in this world.

Thinking, theorising, planning. These things, he can do. After all, he's been given plenty of time to dwell inside his own head since he arrived here. Day by day, the words become a little easier to place and understand. The colours of feelings and gut instincts are still prominent, of course, but they're not dominant anymore.

Neither is his fear. His rage saw to that.

The scuffle on the street with Other America hadn't lasted very long. He'd had maybe three or four minutes of time to punch, kick and even bite the other nation, regardless of how bruised and battered he got in the process, until a sudden, swift blow to the back of his head had sent him straight into a dreamless pit of black. He suspects it was either Other England or Other France. It doesn't really matter which one it was. He wasn't and still isn't expecting any of them to play fair. Other America's survival of the fittest speech probably applies to all their mindsets. This world isn't intent on playing by the rules. And so, England knows he mustn't either. Not if he wants to make it.

He had later come to an hour ago in his bedroom with a mild headache. This isn't a problem, not by longshot. England has been prone to headaches and migraines throughout his life, long before all the pain he met in this world. And even getting wounded in that fight hadn't really hurt, not like some of the other injuries he has endured here. He has a very high tolerance for pain, something he suspects they may not have. Other America is strong, maybe as powerful as the America in England's world. Getting into a fight and actually receiving wounds is clearly not something he's overly used to. England suspects that Other America is used to delivering blows, and never really getting them in return.

Besides, if he and the other nations in this world are in a similar state to Other England, somehow disconnected from the pains of their lands and people, then perhaps pain isn't something they come across very much at all.

From his spot on his bed where he has sat for the last hour, deep in thought, England opens his eyes and watches the door. The lock is on the outside, of course, but that doesn't mean within those two weeks he spent shut up here that he didn't consider moving some of the furniture in front of the door to bar the entrance.

The thought of doing so wasn't altogether tempting at the time. He knows that they could have barged their way in eventually. They're the ones in power here, after all. They always find a way.

Now, the whole idea is unthinkable. To hole up in such a manner, to hide from the danger, feels cowardly to him- and he knows that's how they'll interpret it too. Other America has high expectations of him now, and who knows what he might do if England disappoints him again.

England narrows his eyes slightly. Defiant to all reason, Other America's dissatisfaction had somehow helped bring out all his rage- as if the other nation's opinion of him actually matters. It shouldn't. It doesn't. England has always been quite self-conscious, prone to snapping and getting defensive when people insult him or voice any amount of displeasure regarding him. No amount of fashioning himself into a respectable gentleman could quite control his easily stoked temper, or erase the nasty little words inside of his head, both his own self degrading thoughts and memories of hurtful words spoken by others. Over sensitive, others would call it. The world has labelled him as tough, but this has always been one thing he has been unable to conquer.

England has always, unwittingly, taken things quite personally, and often privately hated himself for doing so, but this is perhaps the worst of all. What these other nations think of him shouldn't matter. Their disappointment in him shouldn't have stung the way it did. They are monsters. They are worth nothing to him, and their opinions should be much the same. But nevertheless, England had found himself wanting to prove them wrong, wanting to show them that he wasn't some beaten, broken little toy of theirs. As much as he loathes to admit it, he had found a large amount of satisfaction in Other America's admission at being wrong about him.

He tells himself he is allowed to be angry when he hears them insult him. If he is weak, it is because they made him this way. If he is strong, it is because he built himself back up again. When they congratulate him, all that should matter is his own assessment. Their approval means nothing. It must be his victory, not theirs.

They have no right to judge him in any way, shape or form, be it good or bad. No one should have that right, no one but himself. But it's all very well trying to tell himself this. It never stopped him feeling bad about himself in the past, and it's probably wishful thinking to hope it will now. Especially if the consequences of disappointing them are severe. He can care about what they think, if it's in the interest of keeping himself safe from them. Everything else to do with what they think of him is unimportant.

They are monsters, and I do not live to satisfy them, England repeats in his head over and over again, until the burning hot rage beneath his skin is all he can feel, and he is certain he can believe it. At least for a little while.


He is awoken the next morning by an awful searing pain on his arm.

He gasps and jerks his head up from his pillow, his other hand flying over to grab at the wound on his arm before he has even registered what might have caused it.

Beside his bed, sitting on a wooden chair that usually resides in the corner is Other France, watching him with dull, purple eyes. In his hand, held loosely over an arm of the chair, is a cigarette.

England stares down at his own arm. Sure enough, there is a small, red-hot scolding mark from where the cigarette pressed against his skin.

Other France shrugs, appearing quite indifferent. 'Just wanted to wake you up,' he drawls.

England glares at him, his stomach churning in anger. There is barely any room at all for fear to surface here, which is unsurprising. He is least afraid of Other France, naturally. But certainly not stupid enough to assume he is harmless. England expects Other France to show what he is capable of sooner or later. This time, he will be ready.

As if reading England's thoughts, Other France lets out a raspy, humourless laugh. 'I'm not like them,' he says. 'I don't take pleasure in what they enjoy. I don't 'ate it, either. I just don't care either way. I'll admit, I was a little curious to see your tolerance for pain. It 'urt, didn't it? But not very much. I'm sure you've 'ad a lot worse by now.' He lifts the cigarette to his lips and inhales briefly before blowing a small cloud of smoke above England's head.

Irritated, England slides off the bed to get away from the smoke and goes to stand a few feet away in the clear zone, his arms folded across his chest. He doesn't expect Other France to even bother turning his head but to his surprise, the other nation's eyes seem to fix on him with something more than just apathy. England feels as if he recognises the expression. It was likely there the day before in the kitchen, only he was more focused on the other two nations and what they might do to him to properly notice it.

Other France's gaze is drilling into him again, the way it first did when they met. His eyes still look as glassy as ever, but the way he keeps them half open, even when not as bored as usual, seems forced, like the dullness is covering up hidden interest underneath. His gaze sweeps over England from top to bottom, studying him just like before, in a way that feels different from simply being assessed. England wonders for a moment if he's overthinking this. He makes it a point to analyse everything these other nations say and do, so he can understand how they think and they'll never have the chance to fool him again.

When Other France actually gets up from his seat and approaches him, he almost shivers. The arms he has folded across his chest feel as if they're here to protect him now. He can already feel the fear creeping back into his mind, so he quickly forces himself to look down at the small burn on his arm again and relight his anger.

'You're very much like your counterpart in some ways,' Other France observes calmly, his voice as nonchalant as ever, although England swears he can see a strange glint in the other's eye. He twirls the cigarette in his hand absent-mindedly, before reaching out with the other hand and resting it just below England's right shoulder, far too close to the throat for comfort. Every instinct in England's body screams at him to either run or punch the other nation in the face. In his inability to decide which would be best, he merely stands, frozen, unsure of what to do. 'I mean, you are the same person, really. Or you were. Started off as the same person, and simply took separate paths.'

England can't think of a single thing he and his counterpart have in common, and hates the thought of them ever having any similarities, be it today or a thousand years beforehand. But from the way Other France's eyes seem to roam over him, he suspects it isn't their personalities the French nation is comparing.

'They can do whatever they like to you, as long as they don't let you die,' Other France breathes, his voice very low. England can feel his breath, hot and smoky on his face.

He doesn't care. England needs no convincing of that. Even at the way Other France is looking at him with that subtle amount of intrigue, England knows he himself means nothing, really, except whatever it is these countries think he is useful for. Other France is very intent on keeping England alive. They all seem to want that, even if the other two are a bit riskier about it. A lot riskier.

'Oliver likes to stoke the fires,' Other France says strangely. ''E likes that they belong to 'im now, and forgets what it is like to burn.'

England doesn't understand what the other nation means, but it's not as if he's going to voice his confusion. He remains as silent as ever.

'Allen,' Other France continues, presumably referring to Other America, 'is much the same. But 'e craves 'elplessness. Not in 'imself, but in whoever 'e chooses to play with. 'E likes to see what 'is toys do with themselves once 'e's torn them down. I'm sure you've noticed.'

It's a little hard not to notice something like that, England almost bites back. And what is it you like? What small piece of meaning can you find?

'So, what do we call you, then?' Other France says, changing the subject. He doesn't sound particularly concerned with the question. England has already gathered that not much can pique Other France's interest. 'We already 'ave an Oliver. Should we call you that, too?'

England simply watches him, learning, analysing, understanding.

Other France sighs, looking irritated. 'You can at least nod or shake your 'ead. You're stubborn with them, because you 'ate them. But there's no reason why you shouldn't at least comply a little with me. You 'old contempt for me, but only by association. I'm with them, so you think of me as your enemy. You're not entirely wrong. I'm certainly not your friend. Nor do I care what they do with you- so long as you don't die.'

And England almost believes it. It's at least partially true, he can tell. Other France isn't exactly bad- not like them, anyway- but he's not good either. He is, for the most part, as neutral as his permanently bored, indifferent mood. He doesn't care at all- about almost anything, from the sounds of it.

But England can see the way those purple eyes run up and down him, and see the familiar restrained flare hiding behind their dullness, something that perhaps comes to life on occasion when Other France does choose to find interest in anything, or anyone. Something that, even then, hardly means a damn thing to him. England has lived over a thousand years, and seen it- or a more passionate version of it- so many times in the eyes of men and women alike. A very primal urge for humans, something nations too have indulged in on plenty of occasions when they're not warring with each other, when they're securing alliances, when they find themselves lonely at night, hungry for something more with each other. Other France looks him up and down like he's an instrument, a remnant of something more, something to coldly indulge in out of routine alone. Something to inevitably throw aside because none it ever matters.

But he is right, in the end. There's no reason for England to be as stubborn with him as he is with the other two. England hates the way this nation looks at him, hates the hand on his skin, but he hasn't been mistreated by him. Not yet.

To answer Other France's earlier question, England slowly shakes his head.

Other France raises his eyebrows, although his eyes stay half-lidded and unamused. 'Oh? So just England, then? Is that what you do in your world? You call each other by your nation names?'

England nods.

Other France finally shows something a little more than indifference at the subject matter. He nods slightly himself, looking a little thoughtful. 'We used to do that. We can't anymore. Well… we shouldn't. And I suppose you 'ad no reason to change your ways like we did.'

He pauses, inhaling his cigarette again. It's almost as if he's waiting for England to ask questions, although he probably doesn't care either way.

'We use 'uman names now. Oliver. Allen. Francois.' He waves lazily at himself with the cigarette. 'But your 'uman name. Oliver. Don't you ever use-?'

England is already shaking his head.

'You don't commonly use it?' A nod. 'And… perhaps… it's not actually Oliver?' Another nod. 'Strange. I suppose there are quite a lot of differences between you and Oliver as well. You're not going to talk, so there's really no point in asking. It's not incredibly important, anyway- but then, most things in life aren't to me. But a small part of me does wonder what my own counterpart is like. Is the other France like me?'

No, England says immediately, although not out loud. The words flow through his head before he even thinks them through. No, because I've seen him look at people the way you do, except it all matters to him. They matter. He takes pride in feeling it, in caring, in any and all of its forms. You don't care. You don't care at all.

Gone are the days where England would feel embarrassed to have said something nice about France, even in his own head. Hell, the chances are he'll probably never see France or any of the others ever again.

It's a horrifying thought, but it's one he may have to be prepared for.

Other France watches him for a few seconds longer, before turning back and walking over to the chair to take a seat once more, staring off into space once more with those dull, lifeless eyes of his.


He stands by the river's edge, watching the light waves wash over the steps at his feet.

In the reflection on the surface of the water, everything is dark. It's almost as if there's no city at all; all the lights are out and the sky is completely black, devoid of stars. But when he looks up from the water at his surroundings, all is well. The city is bright, and although the urban lights block out any view of the stars, he's sure they are there.

He knows this. He remembers the little flashes of a blacked-out city and a dark sky, along with those agonised cries for help, all inside his head.

Sealand takes a step closer to the water's edge, wondering why he's standing so low down. Usually when he comes to London and sees the Thames, he is always standing higher up on the other side of the railings. But right here, he is on a set of steps, leading down into the river. They're probably placed here to help people who might fall in climb back up onto land. He briefly wonders if England ever tried using them when he fell in all those years ago, although he probably would have had trouble finding them in the dark.

He never found them, or else he would have climbed back up and not ended up in that stupid bad world in the first place.

The other world is right here in the reflection, completely dark. It's as if there's no reflection at all, really. The river is pitch black, like the lights above are invisible. But Sealand knows the reflection is there- there just aren't any lights in that world.

Except…

He remembers the world in his head glowing once, when he caught a glimpse of it on fire.

The water continues lapping against the steps. All around him and above, he can hear the sounds of the city, but the noises are faint and muffled. The closer he stands to the water, to the other dimension, the more distant the world he is a part of feels. The only sound that even feels real is the constant flow of the water, sweeping over the lower steps over and over again. And all he can see when he looks down is the inky blackness of the river.

Until there's something else.

Far beneath the surface, a shape is appearing, growing larger and larger as it rises up. It seems impossibly pale in such lighting, like something is illuminating it. The closer it gets, the more defined its features become, and Sealand sucks in a deep breath when he recognises it.

England looks unconscious from the way his body remains motionless. Or even dead, Sealand realises, and he breath he's holding in comes out in a fractured exhale before he takes several other shaky, deep breaths. He's never actually seen a dead body before (at least, not that he can remember). And the thought of England being dead, all those years ago when it was abstract and barely believable, chilled him even then. Seeing an actual physical body is far worse. Sealand shudders and tells himself that England can't die, because nothing in all those terrible five years was able to kill him, even if almost everyone else thought he was dead.

He's just unconscious, and he has almost reached the surface now.

Sealand bends down onto his knees and leans forward, reaching out with his hand. England may not be dead yet, but he may still drown if he stays in the water. Or catch hypothermia like he did before, according to Scotland, back when the eldest brother found England the morning after he returned to this world. Sealand should at least try to pull him out, because he can imagine the look on England's face when he finds out who rescued him, and how America will congratulate the micronation and call him a true hero.

And most importantly because he doesn't want England to die. He probably shouldn't mention that part to his brother later on, though. It would be very embarrassing. Or maybe he should. England talks like he can't believe people actually care. Wouldn't it be a big, nice surprise if Sealand of all people proved him wrong? The micronation pictures the look on future England's face again, and imagines a surprised but truly happy smile on his brother's face, and suddenly Sealand quite likes the image.

His fingers brush against England's back, the top of which is now above the surface of the water. England is freezing, but then, he is in a river.

With a few nudges, Sealand tries to push him so his face is out of the water. After a few seconds, England's head does indeed rise up, his face appearing as he rolls onto his back. His eyes are closed underneath the wet fringe plastered to his forehead, and his skin is very pale.

Sealand swallows and tries nudging him again. 'Hey… j- England. Are you- are you gonna wake up?'

Please, he adds in his head, because he's scared and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do if England doesn't wake up.

Then, without any warning, England gasps and his eyes fly open.

He thrashes around for a second, clearly panicked, choking for air. Sealand jumps in alarm, letting out a little cry, his heart fluttering wildly. After a few seconds trying to calm down, he pokes his head over the edge of the step again and watches as his brother also seems to regain control.

'Hey,' Sealand says. 'Um. You're awake. That's good. Uh… do you need help…?'

He holds out his hand again, tentatively. England just needs to wade over to the side slightly, to reach the lower steps that lead into the river. If he does that, he should be able to climb out. Sealand could guide him to them.

England blinks, lifts up one of his own arms, his hand outstretched.

As soon as the cold, pale fingers clasp around Sealand's arm, far above his hand, the little micronation knows that something is very, very wrong.

England's eyes are glowing a bright, bright blue, like they are lights in the darkness, and his mouth begins curling into a wide, daunting smile.

'Tell England that we're waiting to repay him for all that he gave us,' he rasps, and the words are ever so familiar, just as haunting and chilling as they were when Sealand first heard them.

And suddenly the grip on his arm is tight and heavy and Sealand is being pulled forward, down, down, down into the depths, screaming-


With an awful jolt, Sealand is shaken awake by his own dream. He glances around wildly, immediately frightened by the muffled, humming noise all around him and the shuddering surface he finds himself sitting on.

'Ah, you're awake. We'll be landing pretty soon,' Wales says from beside him. 'Hey, relax. It's okay. Did the turbulence wake you up?'

Sealand finally places his surroundings, and although a little relief comes to him at the realisation that the river was all just a dream, he doesn't exactly find the real situation he's in comforting. He's never really found planes all too frightening before (not that he's been on many), but the hum of the engine suddenly sounds just a little too ominous, and shuddering cabin from the turbulence reminds him of his own quaking as Other England's fingernails had dug into his skin and the world had spun around him as he'd tumbled into the water-

'Sea? You alright?' Wales asks, looking concerned.

Sealand stares in front of him a few seconds longer, before mumbling, 'Bad dream.'

Wales nods sympathetically, and Sealand is struck with a confusing set of feelings; a part of him wants to tell Wales, wants to be comforted. But a bigger part of him wants to keep Wales out of this, because what right does he have to hear any of this, when he never wanted to listen before?

Ireland said Sealand is allowed to be angry. That he has every right to be. Sealand knows it's true, but a little part of his still wouldn't mind a hug right now. Something warm and gentle, and nothing like the cold, tight grasp of the hand in the dream.

He ignores these thoughts and twists in his seat, hesitantly peering through the gap between the seat and the window at the spot behind him where England is sitting, next to Ireland.

Like in the dream, England is unconscious. His head is pressed up against his own window slightly, a small frown etched on his face.

He's dreaming, just like I was, Sealand realises. He wonders if Other England is in the dream, like he was in the micronation's.

Looking at England's sleeping face makes chills him slightly. He's awake now, and there's no logical reason why it should happen, but Sealand can't shake the thought of England's eyes suddenly opening and glowing bright blue.

And then, with another jolt of turbulence as a pilot's voice comes on, announcing the impending arrival, England's eyes really do open, and Sealand almost jumps out of his skin.

Luckily, however, England's eyes are just their normal, regular green. They blink sleepily, unfocused, before they fix on Sealand's face.

The child almost pulls back in embarrassment at having been caught staring, but he doesn't move. The two simply watch each other for a second, both in a kind of daze, before England straightens up.

'His name is Oliver,' he says.


England doesn't quite know what to do with himself when he and his brothers arrive at his old home.

The house itself feels rather cold and empty, mostly due to the approaching winter, and the fact that it has been unoccupied for two weeks. When England had arrived back from the Otherworld, he hadn't spent an awful lot of time here. Firstly, he had remained in the hospital for several days, and once he had been deemed stable, his brothers had taken him around London, to Downing Street, to Buckingham Palace, to anywhere in the city where he needed to make his return known. What little time he had spent at home was at night in his bedroom, subjected to a mostly dreamless sleep each night, before that first memory had returned to him on the evening before he left for the states. A memory of a faceless Other America- Allen- digging into his skin with that pretty green knife.

Does Germany still have it, or did he give it to Ireland and Wales when they all departed from the States?

'I think I should have th-that knife back,' he tells Wales on the second day, after finally giving up on trying to read a newspaper. His restlessness has made it nearly impossible for at least an hour now.

Wales is typing away furiously at his laptop, tasked with the job of arranging a suitable venue for the world nations to meet in at such short notice. England finds it almost amusing that despite having been here in this world once more for several weeks now, he still hasn't been handed back any his old responsibilities. He supposes he's been deemed a bit too mentally fragile for all of that, and too 'preoccupied with everything that's happened to him', as he overheard Ireland putting it the night before.

Wales looks up from the laptop, with a frown that looks more like a wince.

'Does G… Germany still have it?' England asks.

'… No. Ireland does now,' Wales replies, and England can see he's being honest. He appreciates that. 'Getting it through security at the airport was a nightmare; I don't know how you managed.' He gives a weak smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

But England is already rising from his chair, wondering where he might find Ireland. Perhaps he's upstairs, talking with a still bed-ridden Scotland. Although the eldest brother is able to move his limbs far more easily now, he's still forbidden from trying to walk. Perhaps most humiliating for him was being carried onto the plane to sit in a private compartment near the back of it.

England finds Ireland in the kitchen, on the phone with someone.

'Yeah, I know this a tad bit unorthodox- well. A bit more than a tad… Yes, I understand yeh have commitments… Yeh sure yeh can't cancel that? It's just, this really is very important. I'm sure Germany can brief yeh on it… Yes, we really do need everyone. Or as close to everyone as possible… Yeh think we wouldn't have arranged something so hastily if it weren't a global emergency? … What? Terrorism? I'm- I'm not entirely sure that's what I'd call it…' He turns around and spots England, before shooting him a rather hopeless glance. Whoever he's on the phone to is clearly not happy about this new, upcoming world meeting.

'Look, China,' Ireland continues, 'we could really use yer support on this. Yeh're one of the world's leading nations, and this is something that needs to be heard. A very important issue came to light at the G8- yes, I was there for that, long story- and to ensure that everyone is prepared for a potential risk that could very well threaten us all, we'll need everyone to comply with-'

He breaks off as England snatches the phone from him.

'Listen,' England says, a very strange blend of nerves of bold exhilaration racing through his body. 'You need to come. D… Do you understand?'

On the other end of the line, he hears something that sounds like a cross between a gasp and a choke. 'Wha- what-?'

'The situation is s… serious. Things are changing. Do you understand?' England repeats.

'You- you're… you can't be-' China splutters.

'I can, and I am,' England says flatly. Next to him, Ireland looks thoroughly stunned. He makes no move to take the phone back. England sighs as China continues to try and get his words out.

'Be there,' England finishes, before ending the call.

'Eng- England, yeh probably shouldn't have done that,' Ireland manages to get out as England hands him back his phone.

'Why not?' England shoots back.

'Well, for a start, yeh could have given him a heart attack.'

'Because he's older than the r-rest of us?' England challenges him. He surprises himself with the tease in his voice.

Ireland rolls his eyes. 'Because he thinks yeh're dead, England.'

'N-not anymore, I should imagine.'

'We want to wait until the meeting before we tell everyone about yeh. He might tell the other nations.'

'And is that so bad? It m-might actually give them reason to come. If they're i… interested, anyway…' For a second, he is hesitant in his boldness, suddenly flooded with familiar thoughts of none of the other nations caring all too much about his return because they don't care all too much about him. 'Not that you need c… concern yourself with it, anyway. I doubt China w-will say anything to anyone. He'll scarcely believe what heard. He's rational- he'll p-probably convince himself that it wasn't really me.'

Ireland decides to address England's impulsiveness nonetheless. 'What's gotten into yeh? Yeh're acting… different. Bolder. Like yeh're…'

'Not as scared as I was b-before,' England finishes for him.

'Well… yeah. Did something happen?'

I found strength, England thinks. In my memories, my rage conquered my fear. I escaped a cage inside my head. It was all bound to affect him when he woke up from it, he supposes, and secretly feels a little victorious. At least, at this rate, he won't be as much of a stuttering mess in front of the rest of the world when all the nations arrive.

'D… do you have my knife?' England asks, already knowing the answer.

Ireland thinks carefully before replying. 'I've put it somewhere safe.'

'Where?'

He receives a sigh. 'Yeh don't need it now, and yeh know it.'

Heat begins spreading underneath England's skin. Not comforting warmth, but an irritated burning. 'And if something sp… spontaneously attacks us? I'm not a b-bloody child. You can't just keep it confiscated.'

'I know where to find it, if we need it,' Ireland says firmly, and England clenches his fist.

Don't get angry, he tells himself. Your rage is for the nations in the Otherworld. Save it for them.

Ireland is watching him, frowning. 'Yeh really are different. What happened to yeh?'

'I quite like the change,' England finds himself saying, much to Ireland's confusion. Realising that asking for his knife here and now is a lost cause, England decides he has nothing more to say to his brother. He turns around and leaves the kitchen, quite content with the impression he's made. He really is satisfied with the new version of himself. He feels braver, stronger, ready to face the nations in the Otherworld should they think to bother him again any time soon.

At the end of the corridor he steps out into, he catches a glimpse of a small face with wide eyes peering out at him from around a doorframe, before the child ducks into a room and the door is hastily closed.

England's triumph doesn't quite feel so satisfying anymore. With a small, uncomfortable lump in his throat, he heads in the opposite direction to the closed door.


America receives two phone calls on the night before he's due to fly to the UK for the big meeting.

He wants to arrive a little earlier than the rest of the world, and he imagines a few other members of the G8 will probably choose to do the same. They are best suited to help the British Isles arrange the event, after all.

He has just pulled a suitcase out from under his bed so he can begin to pack (he imagines England's voice chastising him for leaving it so late, and smiles at the thought, additionally wondering if England would still be like that) when the first call happens.

'Yo! How can I help ya?' America answers, instinctively casual, before hoping desperately that it's not one of his government officials. Although most of them who know him quite well find his light personality quite endearing, there are still many who think him childish and irresponsible. Well, America realises sheepishly, they're not entirely wrong.

'Hi,' comes Sealand's hesitant voice on the other end of the line.

'Hey, little dude! What's up?'

'Nothing much,' the child replies, sounding oddly reserved. 'You're coming tomorrow, right?'

America grins. 'Can't wait to see me again, huh?'

Finally, Sealand seems to brighten up a little. 'Dream on!' he scoffs jokingly, to which America laughs. 'I only saw you last a few days ago.'

'Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dude. I bet Iggy's missing me too, huh? Not that he'd admit it.'

Sealand's voice grows quieter again. 'Yeah. Probably.'

America may not be great at reading the atmosphere, but he gets Sealand. He has long since established that the two have a lot in common. Often, understanding Sealand is a lot like understanding himself.

'Did you guys fall out?' he says seriously.

'No,' Sealand says quickly. 'Nothing happened. Except… except the mirror in that bathroom.'

America is confused. He was with England the whole time while Sealand was having that encounter with the other England, so the England in this world had nothing to do with…

Oh.

Suddenly, painfully, America understands it all too well. Not so much from Sealand's perspective, but rather from the receiving end- the end England is no doubt a part of now.

'You're scared of him,' America says.

When Sealand does nothing more than breathe in heavily, America decides to correct himself. 'No. Not him. You're scared of who he reminds you of. Like how England is with me… and the other me.'

'Is… is that bad?' Sealand whispers.

America feels his stomach clench in sympathy. 'No, man, of course not. I'm not always great at understanding people, but I get why England panics around me sometimes. Even before he explained it, before I knew why… I knew he couldn't help it. I knew he didn't mean to. I was upset, sure, but not with him. I was upset with what had been done to him, to make him like that. I'm sure he'll understand that, with you.'

'But… I just feel stupid. It's different with me. I didn't get hurt or taken away for five years. I didn't have anything bad done to me. I just stood in front of a mirror for two minutes and got scared. Like a dumb little kid.' Sealand sniffs bitterly. 'And now whenever I look at him I keep thinking about the other him. I'm even having nightmares. All over something so small and stupid…'

America resolves to give the kid the biggest hug possible when he sees him tomorrow. 'Hey, don't call yourself that. You're not stupid. It's okay to be upset about what happened.'

'But it was nothing,' Sealand protests. 'Nothing compared to all the bad stuff that happened to England.'

'Doesn't mean it doesn't matter,' America says firmly. 'Just 'cause it doesn't seem as bad, it doesn't automatically make it not bad at all. You know that. These guys in that Otherworld? They're dangerous. And you met one of them. Of course you're upset.'

'Yeah…' Sealand says faintly. 'But, like… I don't know how to tell him. We were actually… getting along with each other for once. Before I saw the other him. And now I stay away. I don't even really talk to the others either, 'cause I'm still angry with them.'

America thinks for a second. 'I can help, dude. I'll be there tomorrow. It will all get better eventually.'

'But it's gonna be worse before that, right?' Sealand says in a small voice. ''Cause the bad nations are coming.'

'Well, we don't know that for certain-'

'No. They are. They're not done with England,' Sealand says strangely. 'And they want him to know that.'

America's skin tingles uncomfortably. 'What exactly did the other England say to you?'

But Sealand appears to be done with this conversation. 'I should go now,' he says. 'Thanks for everything. See you later.'

'No problem, dude. Laters.'

America ends the call and stares at the suitcase for a few moments, suddenly wishing tomorrow would come quicker. He's never been one to shy away from heroics, and it sounds as if both England and Sealand need his help right now. Besides, this is more than just about stoking his ego; he's not as vain as a lot of the other nations believe him to be. This isn't for him. It's for them.

When the phone rings again, a few hours later, America knows what to say.


England has never particularly suffered from phone call anxiety before, but he supposes this is just one of the many things about him that has changed. Still, at least he's not in the state he was in a week before. He tries to imagine doing something like this back then, and cringes at the very notion of it.

'Yo, what's up?' America's voice is as energetic as ever when he finally answers.

'You don't even know who's c-calling,' England points out, a little amused. His squirming stomach settles slightly. 'This is a new phone. Do you g… greet everyone like that?'

'Yep. Some of my government dudes really hate it. So I keep doing it,' America replies, and England can imagine he's probably grinning impishly on the other end. He also takes note of how upbeat America's voice sounds, incredibly distinct from that off his counterpart's. It actually sounds as if he's quite happy that it's England who's calling, but England quickly reminds himself that this is probably something else America does with everyone.

'So, you finally got a new phone, man? It's not super old fashioned, is it?'

'I wouldn't even know. I missed a lot w-while I was gone.'

'True. You got any movie requests? I'm bringing some films with me. You've got a lot of shows to catch up on too. I can't stress that enough.'

England rolls his eyes. 'Funnily enough, I wasn't calling t… to discuss all the media I was deprived of.'

'Okie dokie. So, whatcha calling for?'

England is suddenly at a loss for words. 'Um… well…'

'Ah. Just like Sealand. He didn't really know what to say at first, either.'

England's mouth goes dry. 'Sealand called?'

'Yeah,' America admits. 'I suggested that he was calling 'cause he already missed me, and I said that I bet you do too.'

England snorts. 'D-don't be absurd. It's been about th… three days.'

'I don't know, man. I'm pretty missable.'

England doesn't even bother to point out that missable isn't a word. He secretly agrees, thinking back to how badly he wanted to see America and the others again while he was a prisoner.

'Is he alright?' England finds himself asking. 'Sealand. He, uh… doesn't r-really talk to any of us. Especially me.'

'That's what we ended up talking about, actually.' America sounds unusually serious. 'I said I'd try to help him out. He's kinda got the same problem as you.'

England frowns. 'Which is?'

'… I remind you of… the other me,' America says after a moment's hesitation. 'And, uh… you remind him of the other you.'

A cold feeling washes over England's stomach as he realises. 'The bathroom,' he says.

'Yeah. He was pretty spooked after that. I think… I think the other England said stuff to him. Stuff he hasn't mentioned.'

'Right.' England feels rather ashamed at having not figured this out. He supposes this is what America must have felt like when England was behaving strangely around him. Except for America, it must have been far worse. He endured glaring from England when the older nation was hallucinating, and had to deal with England completely breaking down in front of him. And until England explained why, he never understood why he was being treated like this. Maybe this is karma.

England had suspected that Sealand would be upset after the confrontation with Oliver. Stupidly, he had thought that maybe the child would want space, much like he prefers when something bad happens to him. The one thing he had thought to do, when he had just woken up on the plane and hadn't even thought it through, was to tell Sealand Other England's real name. He had thought that might open a conversation for them, should Sealand need to talk about it. But it hadn't. It had likely just scared him. He wonders if he should confront the child about it, and maybe explain that he and Oliver are very, very different people. As different as America and Allen.

But if he goes to talk to Sealand, he might frighten him. He doesn't want to do that.

'It's not your fault, dude,' America says. 'And he'll feel a bit better about it eventually. I mean, you're feeling better about the whole thing with me, right?'

'Y… yes,' England says, rather bemused. America, who usually isn't very articulate with words, somehow seems to know exactly what to say. It's almost… soothing. Scratch that, it is.

The warmth in England's chest isn't scorching, flaring and angry. It's calm. Comfortable. Nice.

Then, for the tiniest moment, a sliver of fear crosses trickles into his head, a few awful words accompanying it: He sounded like that too. The other him. He made you feel safe- until you weren't.

But America's voice suddenly breaks out over the top of it, lively and so very, very America. 'So. Movies. I'm thinking Marvel. You gotta get into it at some point, Iggy. I know superheroes aren't exactly your gig, but, well… you like the Doctor, and he's basically a superhero, when you think about it…'

England smiles and closes his eyes briefly. There fear is gone just as quickly as it came.

'Anywho, isn't it like, super late where you are? I mean it's half-seven here. You should totally be asleep, dude.'

'You're right,' England says with a sigh. 'I should get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow. And… thank you. For what you said.'

'You totally thanked me. I wasn't expecting that to ever happen again,' America laughs. 'Sweet. But, uh, yeah. You're welcome, dude. Anytime.'

When the call ends, England feels strangely at peace. For the first time in so long, nothing seems wrong inside his head. When he planned to call America, he had been frightened at the thought of hearing the younger nation's voice, concerned that it may trigger a hallucination and subsequently another breakdown. Which would be a damn shame, really, as he's been doing much better lately.

But aside from that small moment of panic, it all went well.

England's contentedness only lasts a few more seconds. A creak outside his bedroom door, the sound of something pressing down on the landing floorboard, immediately puts him on alert. He straights up in his chair and stares at the door, keeping quiet.

Judging by the level of noise the floorboard made, England is able to roughly determine the weight of the individual outside his door, and he realises it can't be an adult. It must be someone quite small.

A rustling sound begins, at the bottom of the door. England peers down and spots the person's shadow at the base, before a scrap of paper is pushed through from their side to his. The creaking begins again as the person walks away, and England gets to his feet, slowly making his way towards the scrap of paper.

Sealand's messy scrawl (something England has become fairly familiar with over the last two weeks, as the child tends to sign his drawings) can be made out on the paper. It appears to be a message, and a rather short one. Something Sealand has been wanting to say for days now, but has been too afraid to.

England feels all the warmth drain from his body as his mind takes in the words.

He said to tell you that they're waiting to repay you for all that you gave them.


My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com

The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song

Does that last section constitute as even remotely fluff-like? I'm writing a fluff fic rn. It's so weird because it's the first purely fluff fic I've ever written, and it's for Game of Thrones of all damn shows. Like, yeah, that makes sense. Totally.

Was it USUK-ish as well? I hope so, cuz I'm feeling a bit bit USUK deprived rn. I need more fics about these two. I need to write some myself, probably. I do have a big idea in mind, one I'd very much like to pursue. I may get around to it (hopefully).

So that bit with 2P France: I was basically touching on this whole thing they mention about him on the wiki- that while 1P France is more about love, 2P France is more about lust. He apparently doesn't really go for romance- or even forming platonic bonds, for that matter- and tends to indulge only in sex. And while there's nothing wrong with not feeling romantic attraction towards people, I wanted to sort of write about how, once, he may have enjoyed certain pleasures, but now he's become rather unfeeling towards everything, he participates in these things out of routine alone. He remembers the things he once enjoyed and still indulges in them, but he doesn't really feel anything at all. He doesn't care about people. He sees potential partners as objects alone, to relight old feelings that can't truly come back. He uses people for this, unlike 1P France, whom I believe probably always cares about what he's doing and who he's doing it with. France has passion for any and all bonds- platonic, romantic, sexual etc., whereas his 2P not only has lost any passion he once had, but downright shows a complete lack of empathy towards everyone.

Yeah, it wouldn't be one of my A/Ns without at least one, unnecessarily long paragraph.

Also, I tried posting more fanart. Again, it didn't go terribly. Feeling a bit more confident now. This might actually be a thing I start doing regularly. Plus, I got a lot of advice and support from someone when I was feeling insecure, which really helped.

So, the next chapter should have the world meeting. I honestly can't wait to write it. I'm hella stoked for writing more badass England, because he deserves to be the one kicking ass for a change. He's really showing guts now.

I'll see you guys soon, I hope.

Thanks for reading, and remember to review!