Thanks for the nice words everyone, you guys are awesome. :)

Disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine.

The trio of nations huddled over the digital camera, flipping through pictures.

"I can't deny it," England said, sounding vaguely ill. "That definitely looks like a set-up for keeping America confined."

"And it is unusual for him—or anyone—to immediately address you as 'Canada'." France folded his arms. "But if Amérique is being kept prisoner there, why wasn't he in his room?"

"He must have been somewhere Russia could keep tabs on him," England said. "Or else he would have still thought Canada was America."

All four exchanged a worried look. Canada wondered if he was the only one plagued by mental images of dungeons and chains and other unhappy things.

"It's still not definite proof..." Japan said finally.

Canada bit his lip. "There's more. I found this on the bathroom floor, with some other laundry." He tugged out the star-spangled boxers he had stolen, tossing them onto the hotel room table. Japan winced, and England covered his mouth with a hand.

"They might be Russia's," France suggested.

Canada shook his head. "I doubt it. They're my size."

"Maybe they're yours, then."

"Mine?" Canada blinked at France. "Why would I have American flag underwear, and why would they be on Russia's bathroom floor?"

"You tell me."

England elbowed France hard in the ribs. "I'd say we have at least enough evidence to make a formal accusation."

"Now?" Canada asked hopefully. He wanted to get his brother out of there as soon as possible. Who knew what horrors he was being faced with!

England looked at each of them in turn. Canada could practically see the gears in his head turning, wishing their numbers were a bit stronger. But none of them wanted to take the time to return home, round up the other nations, make a formal declaration, then go rescue America...

"Yes," England said. "Now."

Russia couldn't quite remember how it had happened, but their first sudden kiss had led them to the couch, and though America was sprawled beneath him he wasn't entirely sure who was in charge. It was America who had first nibbled and licked at Russia's lips, demanding entrance. It was America who had gripped Russia by the scarf, tugging him even closer. And he was pretty sure it was America who had dragged them to the couch. Which must have been quite a feat, because they had been upstairs by the attic door, and now they were down in the living room, and Russia had no recollection of how they had managed that.

It finally occurred to Russia that one of the things he liked so much about America was that they were equals. Not that America was dominant. Happily, America seemed willing to temporarily relinquish control, and Russia tangled a hand in the short golden hair and attacked his mouth.

And then it occurred to Russia that... well, that he was making out with America. What had led to that? As he explored every inch of America's mouth, jaw, and neck, Russia found himself wondering. Okay, so yes, he... well, yes, he did like the other nation, and... America did blush a lot when they were together! How long had he liked Russia? Before this whole thing started? Was that why he had been so eager to be 'kidnapped' by him? Or had he only realized his feelings while staying with him? Or... or did America just have some weird kidnapping fetish, and this really was some bizarre form of Stockholm Syndrome?

Did any of that really matter? They liked each other and they were kissing. That was the here and now, the important part. They could hammer out the details after...

After... after what? Russia broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he looked down at America, who was already rather fetchingly disheveled. "Um. Do you... want to...?"

"Sounds good." America tugged Russia's head back down, and the war began anew.

Then, then it struck Russia how they must look. His larger body hovering over America, holding him down (not that he really was, but it probably looked that way), kissing him hard...

And Canada was still in the city. Possibly not alone. And could return at any time.

America gave an undignified squawk of protest when Russia flung himself away, off the couch, straightening his clothes as he went. "What? Where are you going?" America propped himself up on his elbows, a frown marring his cutely flushed face, glasses crooked.

It was hard to not pounce back onto him. Russia cleared his throat. "Someone might walk in..."

"I can be on top."

"I know, but that's not the poi-"

"The door's locked, isn't it?"

"It was locked when your brother came in, too."

"Oh." America let out a heavy sigh of disappointment.

"We... we should probably wait." Russia tried to keep a calm facade, but he was feeling just as frustrated as America looked, and doubted he was very successful. "Better if we saved this sort of thing for when the others know we're... um..."

They looked at each other for a moment, then both finished the sentence at the same time.

"Not enemies."

"Together."

Russia blinked. He decided he likes America's version better. "Or together. Right."

"Well, you know..." America stood up from the couch, looking around. "I can see how doing stuff in the living room might be a bad idea when someone could break in and misunderstand. But what about a bedroom?"

Damn. Why did he have to press the issue? Russia firmly fixed in his mind the mental image of Canada and whoever else, bursting in on them, accusing Russia of kidnapping and rape, and dragging him off to lock him up forever, and...

"We really shouldn't," Russia said. "Not until it's safe."

"Come on." America grinned. "We'll be okay in your bedroom. Why would they look there?"

"Um..." Russia coughed, fiddling with the ends of his scarf. "Following the noises?"

"I can be quiet! Anyone who spent puberty and adolescence sharing a room with his brother knows how to have a silent good time."

"That's... that's good... but I still don't think-"

"We'll be fine."

"Well..." It was growing harder to protest, the mental image of the jail cell he would spend the rest of eternity fading from his mind. "Maybe..."

America took a step closer, and Russia unconsciously backed away. There was something in those blue eyes, in the way the light reflected off his glasses, that kind of alarmed him. Just a little. The fact that America looked more amused than anything else didn't help too much.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you upstairs," America said cheerfully, reaching for Russia.

"W-wait, America... wait! Stop!"

It was probably a good thing that, of all the times for America's rescue team to burst in, they had chosen America slinging Russia over his shoulder and marching toward the stairs, laughing.