What's in a Name

Chapter 4

England's mind was racing.

It never boded well when the boss specifically asked to see someone, especially when he sent someone out to actually retrieve said person. It sent shivers running down his spine, and from glancing at Antonio, he could tell that his friend felt the same; he was sitting rigid as a plank, his helmet slightly askew from its usual position. They were in trouble, and they knew it only too well.

For once, the thrill of riding wasn't there. The wind blowing past him felt heavy as he fought to maintain his grip on the bike's handlebars. It wasn't only the thought of seeing the boss that had gotten England nervous; it was what he had just done. He'd left Peter with that brat, who was a complete stranger and definitely could not be trusted. And it hadn't been the thought of keeping Peter safe that had made him leave his brother with that idiot. It had been the prospect of making the twerp suffer. He hated the way he looked, standing there like he could do anything, so confident and cocky. He hated it. And on top of that he'd volunteered to take Peter home. But... that had been a rather decent action, if England thought about it honestly. And Antonio seemed to trust him, even if they had been threatening the brat less than a day ago. It was ridiculous.

The entire gang had gathered.

Not a good sign.

Gilbert and Lovino were standing over to one side, their faces covered by shadows, their stances obviously showing their discomfort. Lovino had pulled his scarf up to his chin and frowned down into it, not making eye contact with his other two group members as they joined them. Gilbert was staring at something in the corner, decidedly not looking at either his friends, or at the tall man, who stood in front of the four of them, smiling coldly.

The gang consisted of another ten people, most of who were hanging back away from their leader. The members that were considered closest to the boss were standing at the front (looking extremely unhappy). Every single one of them knew what was going on. They kept glancing over at the four men who had been separated from them and placed directly in front of the man that they least wanted to see.

"I've brought them, dear." The female biker rushed forwards to greet the gang leader.

"Very good, Belarus." He smiled down at her, his cold smile flickering slightly when she kissed him on the cheek. She stood beside him as he turned back to face England. "You have yet to greet the group properly, England, Spain."

England saw Antonio shudder back next to Lovino, green eyes wide, his tanned skin looked noticeably paler under the gaze of the boss.

"Our apologies," England tripped over his greeting, not meeting the other man's eyes, "I trust you and our fellow members have had clear streets, Russia." He looked up briefly, nodding quickly to the unnaturally tall man, before staring back down at the floor.

Russia continued to smile down at the group, revelling in the smaller man's discomfort. "Clear streets, yes, England. However," he paused, thinking for a moment, "I am not pleased, England. No, no I am not pleased at all." The smile stayed apparent on his face, however Russia's eyes told a completely different story. They were as cold as ice, their violet hue penetrating deep into the darkness of the shelter where they stood. It was no wonder everyone in the group was too scared to stand up to him, England thought to himself, very much shaken in Russia's presence.

England shifted back, what remained of the colour in his face drained away instantaneously. Russia had taken a step closer to him, his expression bore into him. That smile. The smile that said that he was angry, that he wanted to hurt something... someone.

"You didn't report in yesterday, England." He spoke softly, his voice soaked with malice. "Why didn't you come here yesterday?"

"I-" England began but he felt like his throat was full of plaster, dry and cracked.

"Because," Russia continued, "I imagine that the excuse Spain gave for you is not the truth." He shot the two of them a look so cold that England could have sworn that time had stopped. Everyone in the room was holding their breath and all that England could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat as it crashed against his ribcage.

"I had to see to my brother!" England rushed, trying to guess what Spain had said the previous night, what alibi he had provided for him.

"Many of us have siblings, England." Russia turned his back to the group, walking back and forth along the line of the other members of his gang, "However, everyone else reported to me."

"But Peter's only twelve!" Antonio rushed out, trying to justify both himself and England, "It's only natural to be worried about him!"

"I wasn't talking to you Spain." Russia swivelled around on his heel, looking Antonio in the eye, "However, if you have so much to say, then feel free to address the group." His smile grew wider, as if daring Antonio to speak out against him again, which he didn't. "I thought so. After all, it was you who told England that he could leave early, wasn't it, Spain."

It wasn't a question. Russia knew exactly what had happened the night before, he just wanted them to admit to it. England could feel Antonio stiffen next to him. They were so far out of their depth now that there was no hope of escaping from the situation unscathed. That was just how Russia liked to work.

Russia sighed (happily). He leaned in closer to the group, his sickening smile wide. "Whatever shall I do with you four?"

Lovino was holding onto the back of Antonio's shirt unconsciously, as if trying to pull him away from Russia. It didn't go unnoticed.

Russia stood up to his full height. Shadows covered most of his face so that all that could be seen was his smile. "I'll just have to teach you all a lesson." He held out his hand towards Belarus, who stepped forward, pistol in one hand, iron bar in the other. "Which would you prefer, Belarus?" She blushed and held out the bar, obviously overjoyed at being asked her opinion. "Very good." Russia took the bar from her and inspected it, slowly running one hand up and down its length and then turned back to England, "You will watch this, and you will never miss another meeting. Understand?"

England didn't reply. He stood transfixed to the spot as Russia turned to Antonio, his heartbeat growing ever louder in his ears. Gilbert had edged his way forward next to him and was shooting him comforting looks whenever he thought that Russia wasn't looking. It didn't help, but England appreciated the effort that his friends had made for him, even if it had ended up this way.

"Spain, because it is your fault that your group is being punished, I think yours should be the most severe." His eyes were still hidden, but all four of them saw them flash as Russia moved, swinging the bar down.

"NO!"

Alfred was exhausted.

It had taken him half the trip home to explain to Peter that he knew the way to the apartment block because he lived there as well. Alfred couldn't fathom where the boy got all his energy from, but had played along with him nonetheless.

Peter had spent the evening in Alfred's room planning how he would one day be the most feared person in the world (and making as much noise as possible) and Alfred had played along with his usual "I'm a hero and I would never allow people to live in fear, because I'm awesome!" speech. He'd played this game too many times with Matt, only Matt had usually been forced to play the villain by Alfred and not by his own choice.

He had finally fallen asleep on Alfred's sofa while doing his homework, leaving Alfred in peace to rake through his own books, discarding the ones that he would not need the following day.

Kiku had popped his head around the door a couple of times to make sure everything was alright. ("I was worried because he usually comes to my room in the evenings.") Alfred had ushered him away with his trademark grin, claiming that everything was "awesome" before Kiku had presented him with a meal for the three of them to eat while working.

"How do you find time to do everything?" Alfred had speculated over Peter's surprised cry when he had eaten the wasabi paste on its own and not enjoyed the resultant burning in his mouth.

"I'm a teacher." Kiku smiled, offering Peter a drink. "My whole life revolves around timetables."

"Aaah..." Alfred hummed, "That explains a lot."

But now the flat was quiet. Peter dozed on the sofa, his books slipping from his side, and Alfred lay on his front on the floor, picking through his many different books, and chucking the ones he didn't need in a pile on the nearby table.

There was a loud bang which caused Alfred to drop the large textbook he was holding and Peter to wake up.

"Ah! He's home!" Peter groaned, gathering his books.

Alfred stepped out on the landing and stood at the top of the stairs, expecting to see England having another shouting contest with Francis. But no. Instead, the two men were talking in hurried whispers. There was something slumped against England, which was also being supported slightly by Francis.

The floor creaked and England snapped his head up to look towards the source. He started when he saw Alfred standing at the top of the stairs, slowly making his way down the flights towards him and Francis.

"What the bloody hell-"

"Ah! Alfred! Thank god!" Francis cut him off, greeting Alfred warmly, before turning back to face the extremely confused and irritated England. "You should at least get to know who's living in the other apartments, mon ami."

"Shut up, Francis." England spat at the Frenchman, adjusting his load on his shoulder. "Help me carry him upstairs, will you."

It was only then that Alfred realised what England was carrying.

Antonio was slumped over the smaller man's shoulder, unconscious. Blood stained his shirt and dripped freely down him arm onto the floor. The colour had drained from his face and his hair was hanging loosely over his face.

England shifted uncomfortably under Antonio's weight, obviously having trouble supporting the taller man. The blood was soaking into his shirt from Antonio's injury, leaving a horrible crimson circle on his jacket.

"Wha- What happened?" Alfred stammered over his words, transfixed on Antonio's limp body over England's shoulder.

"None of your damn business." England spat at Alfred weakly, "Are you just going to stand there gawking, or are you going to let me past? This guy's heavier than he looks, you know."

Without a second thought, and taking England by surprise, Alfred hefted Antonio out of England's grasp and hoisted him over his own shoulder. "You look beat." He justified, looking England in the eye, obviously concerned.

"I just said-"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Alfred ignored the shorter man's protests and started walking up the stairs. "You're on the third floor right? Which room?"

England followed Alfred closely, making sure to show his frustration by stomping up the stairs rather than walking normally. "First on the right." He grumbled, glaring at the back of Alfred's head.

He unlocked the door and slumped inside, closely followed by Alfred. Antonio was laid down on the sofa. His tanned skin looked unnatural in its paler state. His brow was covered in sweat and blood which had seeped into his hair, sticking it to his forehead.

Alfred leant against the wall, looking around the flat.

It wasn't what he'd been expecting. What he thought should have been a room covered in piles of clothes and rubbish was actually immaculately clean. There were papers piled onto a nearby table with letters all addressed at an 'A. Kirkland', which he assumed to be England. There wasn't any sign of rubbish anywhere in the apartment and Alfred found it hard to believe that such a grumpy biker could actually keep his home this clean.

He was about to comment on the state of the room when he noticed England leaning over Antonio, slowly cleaning the blood off of his friends head and arm. His face was contorted in distress which shocked Alfred more than anything. As far as he'd been concerned, England had just been a pissy man who didn't know of any emotion except anger. But this proved that assumption wrong instantaneously. The shorter man's brow wasn't furrowed in anger, but worry as he bandaged Antonio's head.

Alfred found himself walking over to the sofa next to England and subconsciously placing a hand on his shoulder, making him start away and flush red, "What the hell are you-!"

"He'll be okay." Alfred cut him off, levelling himself with England.

England froze. He hadn't expected this kind of reaction from Alfred. He hadn't expected him to be kind and considerate enough to help with Antonio, let alone when he'd offered to take Peter home.

"Yeah..." He managed to croak out, looking back down at Antonio and wiping his bangs out of his eyes.

The two of them stayed there in silence as England continued to wipe the blood off of Antonio, and removed his stained shirt. England winced at the large gash running down Antonio's tanned arm, still spilling blood. He bandaged it up as best he could, trying to stop the flow, but was interrupted when the door burst open suddenly.

Peter stood in the doorway, his panicked face identical to England's, which made Alfred notice just how alike the two brothers looked.

"What happened?!" Peter shook as he caught sight of the bloody mass of material that had been Antonio's shirt.

"Get the fuck out, Peter!" England found himself shouting at his younger brother without meaning to and felt a pang of guilt when Peter glared back at him.

"Peter," Alfred stepped closer to the boy and crouched down to his height, "can you go back up to my flat and bring down the leftovers that Kiku put in the kitchen?"

"What're you-?" England tried to speak but was once again cut off.

"You haven't eaten, right?" Alfred turned to smile at England. It wasn't his usual stupid grin, England noted. It was softer, caring.

England caught himself staring at Alfred and hurried to looked away, angry at himself, his cheeks slightly pink. Alfred nodded, taking this as a 'no' and motioned for Peter to go and retrieve the food.

A groan from next to him brought England's attention back to Antonio. His eyes flickered and opened, wincing in the electric light of the room; they were bloodshot and bleary, completely contrasting to their usual warm glow.

"Ow..." He moved his uninjured arm up to his head, finding the gash in amongst his hair. "Guess that didn't go quite as planning, eh England?" He tried to smile up at his friend but stopped after seeing the scowl on the blonde's face. He was shaking, either from distress or anger. "Are you alright-"

"Am I alright?!" England snapped. "You complete fucking MORON!"

Alfred leapt backwards at the England's outburst, how could such a noise come out of such a small man? Antonio was obviously thinking along the same lines, Alfred noted after watching the injured man flatten himself against the back of the sofa, some of the colour returning to his face.

England proceeded to yell at Antonio while Alfred cautiously guided a highly confused Peter back into the room and into the kitchen to put the leftovers on plates for the other two, ignoring the shouts of, "You insufferable, loved-up git!" coming from the other side of the open-plan room.