By the time Alfred had managed to hand over the stack of bills to the greedy Russian and redress himself, Arthur had fled the cursed city. It was such a nice place, he almost felt bad that he would forever associate it with the action he had just witnessed. He hesitated when he realized he'd left his bags at America's house, but hardly missed a step and continued on his way. He needed to leave, but had no place to go. He needed an umbrella, because it looked like it was going to pour any second. And damn, he needed a drink, because today was something he never wanted to remember. People sidestepped him on the street; he kept his gaze straight down on the sidewalk because he didn't want to have to think about where he was.

When there weren't eyes on him, he'd break. It was just a matter of time until the dams broke and emotions flooded his body and drowned him.

Oh God, he needed to find somewhere to hide. His stomach flipped and he gagged on the bitterness of the cheerful and light conversations of those around him. It was too sweet, too happy. He was upset; he demanded the world be upset with him. He was angry, and everyone else should be too. He was burned, burning, and it hurt.

And so Arthur found a hotel, found himself in the same hotel he'd always used when he visited. That was, before Alfred insisted the Brit stay at his house whenever he visited because 'Hey, Princess, my bed's comfy.' and 'I never see you anymore, babe' and 'Fuck, I miss you; I love you'. But those words weren't keeping him there; now the man felt as though he needed to leave. He felt as though he was being choked by those once kind words, now turned sour and fat and heavy in his head, weighing him down and slowing his movements. By the time he got to his room his eyelids were drawn low over fogged emerald eyes, steps slow and sluggish. Arthur didn't bother with the lights.

The bed was there, and it was cold and welcoming. Shoes were removed, slacks and shirt soon followed. With an audible sigh, the Englishman fell onto the bed, and rolled himself into a nest of blankets. He tried to swallow, but the hard lump in his throat prevented anything that attempted to pass. He whimpered and dug his face into the soft, sterile pillows and harshly bit down on his lip. The pillows muffled his agonized mumbles of why, why, why? and the blankets hugged him close.

If Alfred wants to sleep around with Ivan, then it's his loss. It's his loss- his loss- his loss-

No, it was Arthur's loss. Because if he lost Alfred, if he lost his hero, he lost everything. He lost those strong arms around him, he lost those quiet mornings with gentle kisses, he lost that bit of Alfred that was his, and only his. Alfred was the only one to hold his heart so completely, was the only one who could tear him down from the inside. That boy could break him so easily, and it was pitiful, pathetic. He was pathetic for offering his heart to such a young, foolish boy; being the wise 'old man' that he was, England should have seen something like this coming. He should have known that America, who was nothing more than a child (and oh god, that made it so much worse), would go and fuck this up.

So if he knew, why did he let it happen?

Because he was a masochist? Because maybe he just wanted to forget what the others said (so young, so naïve, so wrong) and just love. When Francis told him nothing good would come of their relationship, he knew that it was going to go down in flames.

And so Arthur swore, screamed until his throat was raw and there was nothing left to scream about. It was night, and it was time to get himself together. It was time to forget, and Arthur planned on doing just that. He sat up and glanced over at the clock. Midnight stared back at him, and for a moment he wearily wondered how long he'd been in his pitiful, self-loathing state.

Maybe he'd go to America's house. But not to hear America's voice. He just wanted to know the feeling of having America under the heel of his shoe; what a rush that would be. It reminded him of his pirate days.

Maybe he wanted to hear Alfred beg. Maybe he wanted to see that cocky, so-sure-of-himself bastard on his knees, kissing his black leather shoes and making him Earl Grey every day. Maybe he wanted Alfred to plead and kiss his cheeks desperately, asking him "Arthur, please, I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Babe, you know I love you. Honey, babe, princess. . . I love you. Don't be mad, please, don't be mad. Arthur, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was an accident. I'm stupid. I'm sorry."

England blinked and then frowned; he wasn't going to buy any of this crap. He was the fucking British Empire and he did not need some pitiful ex colony of his to survive. Rising, the Brit went to the bathroom to examine his appearance, and what a pitiful sight he was; hair messed, eyes puffy and red, and that scowl that made him look so much colder. In a huff, he grabbed the room key, redressed in a sloppy fashion, and left without his coat.

He was moderately happy that the night was just as dark as he was at the moment. As he had predicted, it was raining, and it wasn't pretty or romantic or meaningful; it was dreary and cold and very agitating. And yet, the only good bar he knew in the area was far enough away that by the time he arrived, the already fuming nation was even angrier and soaked to the bone. The bartender raised an eyebrow at the man as he cleaned out a mug, and asked in typical bartender fashion, "Rough night?"

England snorted and ordered a scotch. It burned his raw throat, but he liked it. "You have no fucking idea."

The portly bartender nodded and didn't prod further. Arthur silently thanked him and returned to nursing his drink. Five more followed, and the Brit was feeling lighter and yet sat heavily on the stool, hunched over the wooden surface of the bar, grumbling at his pitiful life and horrible ex lover and anything his mind would . "Bloody 'ell!" He declared to the few people in the bar and pounded his forehead against the bar.

"Damn idi't. . . Leave m' 'lone. . ." The nation slurred his words terribly as his thumbs kneaded into his temples in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but to no avail. He ordered another scotch and downed it like water. Alfred was clogging his brain when all he wanted to do was forget and drink himself so far into oblivion that he would lose himself, even if only for a little while.

Fuck, it hurt.

Even with the numbing scotch there, it hurt.

Arthur chewed the inside of his cheek raw and tasted the sharp, metallic blood on his tongue. Where to go now?

The nation withdrew into himself and blinked. He should try and talk to America about what happened, about what it meant for their relationship, and where they went from there. Yes, he'd go to the other's house the next day, they'd talk over coffee and tea (England never drank coffee and America would laugh at him), England would apologize for running out and overreacting, and America would apologize for everything. They'd sit in silence for a few minutes and then have wild make up sex on the couch. Everything would be normal again, and England would forgive America like the gentleman he was. England would forgive America because he was a nation and they were allies and they needed each other. Politically, this would be hardly a pebble in the road of their relationship. Politically, this didn't matter, as long as the two were still allies and still against the Soviets. It was just an accident, after all.

Arthur nodded; he would go and talk to Alfred.

Or not. He snorted, ordered another scotch and blissfully toasted to sweet isolation.

Long before the war started, before people had tanks and U-boats, Prussia had birds. And he had them everywhere; they followed him when he went out, some riding in his hair, others following him in a straight line. Some were canaries, others were chickens. But his favorite was the eagle; grand and beautiful and grand, just like Prussia was. With dark feathers, it was almost identical to the one that so proudly flew on a plane of white and black over the castles and battle fields and homes of Prussians. And as far as Gilbert was concerned, it was almost as awesome as him.

The eagle had been a gift from one of many who wished to get on the current king's good side. However, the nation had taken a liking to the tiny bird and claimed he would raise it to be strong and rather awesome. And that he did; the chick grew up into a proud creature, and took to the skies with a beak pointed towards the sun, bright and gleaming in the afternoon. It even accompanied Prussia into battle on one occasion. He had watched it fly with a mixed feeling of jealously. What he wouldn't give to be free as the eagle was; to be relieved of all the unfairness a nation had to go through and just live, and live happily. But he couldn't, he wouldn't, leave behind his people like that, no matter how much he wanted to.

Prussia knew why he kept the birds, even if he wished not to admit it: they needed him. Hell, they loved him; the birds followed his every move, craved his attention and snuggled up to him while he slept. They were warm and innocent and needed him there, and unlike the rest of the world, they liked him. They liked his presence, and didn't call him a 'nuisance' or a 'wasted piece of land'. Admittedly, Gilbert didn't go around like the other nations did, asking for affairs and alliances and marriages. No, he wasn't a pansy like that aristocrat and his crazy, pan-wielding wife. He didn't mind being alone either; as long as he had his birds and his country and his pride, he was more than happy.

But now?

Now all he had was his pride. And even that was hanging by a thread; one didn't retain much pride while begging at the feet of another for mercy.

Proud or not, it was easy to say Gilbert was miserable. After he woke up with the worst headache of his life (even worse than that one time Denmark and England came to Oktoberfest with him and Germany) he found himself having trouble remembering things. Nothing to be completely worried about, but small things that he should have known, like Old Fritz's favorite food and the face Austria made when he had been pitifully defeated by the might of the Prussian army. Even his earliest memories were somewhat hazy, and that left the ex nation a bit unnerved; those were the few and faint memories he had of Germania, and it bothered him that he might lose those precious things.

With a loud groan, he sat up in bed and immediately felt the bandages. They were wrapped firmly around his skull, covering what he assumed to be a large gash on the side of his head. Sure, he could have laid in bed all day, but had a word or two to say to that Russian idiot, and damn, he planned to say them. The world spun as he stood, and the man nearly tumbled to the ground but caught himself on a chair that had been moved to sit next to the bed. Gilbert blinked. Odd, when did he put that there? He couldn't recall doing so and bit his lip. Had Russia been sitting there? Had he been watching him? An involuntary shiver ran down his spine and he swallowed, shakily making his way to the door.

After an unsteady trip down the stairs, Gilbert expected to find the Russian in the kitchen, cooking up a pot of borsch with a merry tone in his voice and a smile on his lips. What he found was surprising; Lithuania standing at the sink, washing the dishes with a small smile on his face, as if remembering a pleasant memory. Upon hearing someone entering the kitchen, the brunette glanced over his shoulder for a moment, before returning to his cleaning. His smile had vanished as the ex nation stood in the kitchen, confused and expecting an explanation.

"What are you doing here? You're never at the Berlin house," Prussia grunted, slipping into one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table.

"Mr. Russia had to go to a world meeting at Mr. America's house. You've been asleep for two days. He didn't want you to be alone here, so he sent for me to come and stay with you until he returns," The Baltic nation stopped cleaning the china and turned to Prussia, who was fidgeting with the table clothe lazily. "Which should be in about four days if all goes to schedule."

Gilbert was uninterested in this. It was bad enough being stuck in a house with a psychopath, especially a drunken one, but at least there was always something to do. Whether it was getting beaten to a pulp (which wasn't fun at all, but it was time consuming) or finding places to hide, Prussia was kept on his toes when Russia was around. And no matter how much he hated himself for thinking it, the man's presence did make shivers shoot up his spine. On the other hand, it was horrible being stuck in the house with a boring maid/manservant, as there was absolutely nothing to do but clean and sit on his awesome ass.

"He left you a note." Toris's voice brought Gilbert from his thoughts, and crimson eyes flashed up to see a plain white envelope tossed to him. Greedy hands reached out to snatch it from the air, tore it open and ripped out the letter inside. It was printed on official looking paper and even had a governmental seal on top, along with some writing in that weird alphabet that the Prussian had no hope of ever reading without someone's help.

Малютка,

If you are reading this, that means you didn't get a hemorrhage after all! How delightful!

Ahem.

First of all, I apologize for leaving on such short notice. It was rude of me, but I had no choice if I wanted to make my plane on time. Being late is very rude, wouldn't you agree? But in all honesty, I would have liked to stay a bit longer, because you are simply too cute when sleeping (even if you do have a concussion) and I was quite enjoying the view. But don't fret, because I'll be home soon! That pesky meeting should only take about a day, but I would like to do some sight seeing, so I shall be staying there for a few extra days. Don't be sad, I'll make sure to make lots of borsch when I get back; I know you like to eat it when it's cold outside.

Secondly, I have to ask that you don't pull any stunt like you did two days ago. Your pretty little head was already beat up enough when I left and I don't want to come home to see you missing an eye. It should take you a few weeks to fully recover, if my predictions are correct, so be sure to relax and get plenty of sleep. Oh, and don't forget to keep changing the bandage; when you fell, you got a rather strange cut on your head.

I also purchased a new atlas, since you so kindly tarnished my old one. This one's in German, so hopefully you can understand it!

Be sure to take care of yourself! I'll see you in a few days, Подсолнечник.

-Ivan

Gilbert growled and crumpled the carefully written letter in his hand. Stupid Ivan, he had been watching him sleep! Feeling as though he would never sleep peacefully again, the Prussian tossed the paper ball to the floor and pressed his bandaged forehead to the cool surface of the table. He'd also been called 'cute', which was not only insulting, it was mildly disturbing; the last thing Gilbert wanted was a person like Russia taking interest in him. It left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he decided immediately to forget that letter ever manifested in his hands.

He sat like that until his back started to ache and the other man had long since returned to his chores. He floated around the house, dusting furniture and bookshelves like a ghost, separated from everything and barely even there.

"Mr. Russia must really like you."

Brought out of his doze by the clear voice, Gilbert looked up at Lithuania and snorted. "Yeah, we're best buddies. Couldn't you tell by the bandages?" His glare shot daggers into the brunette, though he seemed to be completely unaffected.

Toris shook his head, a small frown on his lips. "You know he can't help that. Its how he deals with things he can't control."

The Prussian quirked an eyebrow and leaned forward, elbows rested neatly on the table top. "He beats the shit out of them with a pipe?"

The Baltic nation sat at the sturdy kitchen table that could have supported half the world if need be. "That's not what I meant, Gilbert," Said man rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the tablecloth. The two were silent for a decent stretch of time before Lithuania tried talking again. "Mr. Russia just has a difficult time dealing with you. He thinks the only way to get you to listen is by beating some sense, quite literally, I might add, into you. It's not like he enjoys it."

This quickly drew the attention of the albino across the table, who glared at the Lithuanian with brilliant red eyes. "How the hell would you know?"

"Trust me; I've seen Mr. Russia's bad side. I've been where you've been, I know how he thinks. And he doesn't enjoy beating us," A pause, the brunette sighed. "But it's the only way he knows how to deal with people like us," There was another, considerably tense silence before Lithuania continued. He seemed nervous and jittery, as if Russia himself might pop in and hear every word of their conversation. "Iv- I mean, Mr. Russia is trying to change. I talked to him before he left."

"Yeah? And?" Prussia was trying to fake an interest in the cabinets, even though his hands were fisted and his brow twitched involuntarily.

"H-He said you tried to run away again. He told me how he had to order this special beer from Prussia that you liked and find all these weird ingredients to make that Soßklopse you wanted. And he's really trying to make you see that he's not all bad."

Feeling something stir inside of his gut, Gilbert frowned, a disgusted look on his face. "I know I'm pretty awesome and all, but why the hell would Braginsky do that for me? "

Toris gave a small nod, blue eyes hopeful, voice soft and encouraging. "Because he likes you. He wants you to see that."

Another long period of silence passed between the two before the albino abruptly stood, palms slapped down on the cool wood of the table. "That's a load of bullcrap. That bastard is a freak, and we both hate each other." With that, Gilbert spun on his heel and marched out of the kitchen. The walls around him started to close in as he strode through the house, the shadows growing darker and meancing. In the back of his mind he heard Lithuania scamper out of the kitchen and follow after him all while babbling nonsense and lies that an awesome guy like himself didn't plan on buying any time soon.

Prussia bit the inside of his lip and growled. He needed out, and he needed out now. How could a scrawny man like Toris keep him from going? Russia wasn't even on the same continent any more and that was enough reason to grab his boots and the huge jacket he was forced to wear and head straight for the door. There was tugging on his sleeve as the Lithuanian tried to stop his movements, all of which he ignored.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. Now, get off of me." With a sharp yank, Prussia's arm was free of the brunette, who wisely took a few steps back as he saw the expression on the ex nation's face. A mocking smirk spread on his lips as he approached the door and opened it. "Don't worry, it's not like I have anywhere else to run to." With that, Prussia was outside in the freezing air and the incredibly bright light. Ouch. Had the sun always been that big? Maybe he needed to get out more.

Squinting, Prussia got away from that fucked up house as quickly as possible, pulling the hood of the jacket over his head. On any other day, the albino would have loved to feel the breeze through his near silver hair. However, on that particular day, he wanted to blend in. He watched the streets full of sad, lonely people (his sad, lonely people) in their old cars and pathetic buildings. He saw the longing, infuriated glances at the wall and could feel his heart beat painfully with every step he took. This was supposed to be him, these were supposed to be his people, and yet he felt so incredibly lost as he wandered through the streets.

They all felt German to him; not Prussian. They were foreign and they were his bruder and not him not him not him. Was he nowhere? Had he been forgotten by all beyond that cement wall? Prussia zipped up the jacket as far as possible and jammed his hands into the pockets. His breath came out in tiny wisps, crimson eyes flickering up to the clouded sky.

He stopped walking and thought of birds. He thought of the freedom they possessed just by spreading their wings and fought back jealously. In an almost childlike act, Gilbert lifted his arms from his sides and shook them, as if flapping his 'wings'. Nothing happened, just as expected, but he was left with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. He thought of freedom and how he could almost feel himself get lighter as the burden of the world was lifted from his shoulders. But that was just out of his reach and his body ached too much.

Those thoughts bothered the ex nation a bit too much, so he drew away from them and thought of other things. Of kings and Königsberg and cigarettes and alcohol and of course he thought of Ivan. An involuntary shiver crawled up his spine. They hated each other. Hated, hated hated. There was nothing more to what they shared; a mutual dislike that asked of nothing except more wood to stoke the fire of their hate for the other. It had been a silent law when the Russian's curious hands once dipped below his belt that they would never go further than that. The rules were set, and up until that point, Gilbert hadn't thought deeper into their relationship.

But now the gears were turning and his brain had charged full speed ahead into those foreign thoughts. The Prussian's hand traveled up to touch the bandages. Those had been the first he had to wear in a month. Russia hadn't harmed him because hadn't needed an excuse to use the pipe. And while that was always a good thing, Prussia couldn't help but feel a bit unnerved. He thought of the proud smile the lumbering bear of a Russian gave the Prussian when he presented wursts to the ex nation. He thought of the hours he spent with his awesome nose buried in books full of Russian ideas and Russian words all done by Russian authors. He thought of the time Russia dumped his favorite scarf on Gilbert's shoulders when he had gotten cold. It had brought butterflies to his stomach.

Oh, no. He wasn't losing his steel will, was he? He wasn't fighting back as much; he was learning Russian and speaking less and less German. A flame of rage flared up, licked at his insides and burned him. "Ha, good one! I am the awesome Prussia! I don't give up!" He spoke to no one but the words still came out.

Ivan hated Gilbert. Gilbert hated Ivan. That was that. There was no room for like in that equation.

That was a joke. It had to be. Prussia and Russia would always hate each other. They were enemies. Enemies don't like each other. Just look at England and France. Turkey and Greece. Russia and America. He and Ivan were no different. After a moment's thought, Gilbert realized in horror that both Francis and Arthur and Sadiq and Heracles had slept together. On multiple occasions. As for that annoying American and Ivan, he didn't know. But something about the two of them together tugged the corners of the Prussian's lips down for a moment. He swallowed and shook his head; he didn't give a fuck what that commie bastard did with that idiot. Why would he?

Gilbert walked and thought. He thought and walked. He stopped thinking and walked more. He stopped walking and thought more. More and more and more thoughts. Gilbert lost himself in a city that was supposed to be his heart, his soul. The picture he saw was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Prussia found himself on another no-name street where Soviet and East German flags were flown. There were no Prussian eagles to be found.

It was a bet. A mistake. He was sorry, sorry, so sorry.

Alfred didn't mean for it to happen. He never meant for England to find them. But then Russia had zipped up his pants and accepted the money with a smile, and cheerfully pointed out that this was all a part of the bet, of their little game. A game that the United States was currently failing at. A game that started when the Russian arrived three days earlier than expected with an extra bottle of vodka that had Alfred's name on it. It stung and burn as it went down, but he smiled through it anyway because he was the hero.

Turns out, Alfred couldn't handle his vodka very well.

"Take 'em off, Ivan!" A semi-drunken shadow of himself had pleaded a calm faced Russian, fingers dug into the belt loops of the huge nation's pants.

"Frisky, aren't we?" Ivan had received a whine and another tug as a response. He sighed and threaded his hands in America's golden hair, and somewhere in his expression was longing. Alfred assumed it was for him. "What would your beloved Princess say of this?"

The terribly young nation had frowned and cocked his head to the side, sitting on the Russian's lap with a pout. "That ol' man? He doesn't have to find out about this, does he? It could be our secret." What a compelling argument.

"Someone will find out. It would look bad for you; you're in a 'special relationship' with England, correct? Little Arthur would not be pleased if he found out."

". . .You wanna bet?" A lopsided grin sprang to the American's face. He ground his hips downwards, trying to get some reaction out of the Russian. "Yeah! I bet we won't get caught! Fifty bucks. We won't get caught."

"Hmm. You seem so eager about this, young one. I hope you know what you are doing, because I plan to take full advantage of this situation. If we get caught, it's on your shoulders."

"Whatever, man! We won't get caught!" With that, the self proclaimed hero crushed his lips against the Russians and it all went downhill from that moment.

After Arthur ran out, the two rival superpowers sat at the table and America and pounded his forehead against the cool table. Russia asked him what on earth he was doing and why he'd do such a silly thing. He stared in disbelief. "Did you not just see that? Arthur saw everything! You and me! Holy crap, he saw everything!"

Ivan raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his vodka. "It's on your shoulders, little one."

Alfred was mad. Mad at himself for being such a shitty hero. Mad at Ivan for bringing his vodka and lavender eyes. Mad at Arthur for seeing it all. He was getting no pity from anyone. Ivan was right; the situation rested on him now.

The sad thing was that he had made no move to stop this from happening.

Author's note: Ha! I updated it! 83 Thanks to those who have faved my story, and to those who just read it also. Please leave a review if you have anything to say! I don't bite much.

Thank you!