A breeze pushed the cream-colored curtains into the room from their resting place on the balcony. Outside, a bird perched and landed on the cement railing and peeked into the house. Parents were bustling and a nurse was doing her chores, all in another room. In one room of the Capulet household, however, the youngest member of the family lay in the arms of her new husband, sleeping as the sun shined outside.

The bed in her room was almost too small to fit the two bodies laying on it, one holding the other to their chest. Arms toned with muscles enwrapped themselves around the waist of a smaller form. White sheets were a cocoon around their legs, somehow tangling together during the previous night's activities. A pillow lay near the corner of the bed, the other shared between the newlyweds. Both of their chests rose and fell at a slow rate, a deep sleep cradling both of their minds and keeping them contented. It would have been a normal scene had it only changed three factors: their family feud, one of their genders, and the fact that Romeo and Juliet weren't actually Romeo and Juliet. They were two strong Nations that had, unintentionally, consummated a marriage that didn't even apply to them personally.

The breeze continued in, floating over to the two bodies. Goosebumps covered the more strong-armed man and he gave a grunt, an arm lifting from the waist of his bedmate to flail in the air. Swatting at the cold wasn't helping, so he let his arm fall back down and tried to return to sleep. Slumber, however, had evaded him, though he wasn't entirely conscious either. His eyes closed tightly, trying to block out the sun, but he failed and eventually gave up, groaning in discomfort.

His free arm now hand-down on the bed, he moved to hoist himself up and untangle his legs. However, he was tugged back down and grumbled incoherently. Blinking his blue eyes wearily, he squinted and looked from the open light to down at what held him back. His left arm was underneath a warm body, one he glanced over with little interest.

Okay, so someone was asleep next to him. Who cared who it was? Alfred Jones just wanted his arm so he could get up and get some coffee. He had little interest otherwise. Without disturbing them, he managed to slide his arm out from under their form. Nevertheless, the straw-haired other moaned and immediately took his arm back, clinging on as if they wouldn't let go.

That's when Alfred fully woke up.

"Huh?" America bumbled, blinking in confusion and out of his subconscious state. Whoa. The room was all a blur, as was the night before. But, even without loyal Texas to correct his piss-poor vision he knew this wasn't his room. He didn't have a balcony or curtains. He had a flag on his wall and in here there was none. What did he do last night? He knew that he knew, but it just wasn't coming to him. Why couldn't he remember? Oh well, that wasn't the immediate issue. The issue was who this person was clinging to him. He had been half asleep when he examined them and couldn't exactly remember what he saw, still a bit dazed. But now that he was waking up, he realized that this wasn't a good thing.

America's eyes narrowed slowly. He felt like turning around would be a fatal idea, like he would be looking into the eyes of Medusa. Still, he twisted his torso (legs still in the sheets) to stare at the other in the bed. Still latched onto his arm was an angelic looking England, who mumbled something quietly and held on tighter to America.

For a moment, America watched the older Nation as he slumbered, observed his curves rise and fall with every slow breath, noticed how his face wasn't tensed up in a scowl and he looked peaceful. Then, with a soft sigh, America turned to lie on his side, seemingly fine with England claiming his arm for his own, and snuggled close to the smaller but nevertheless warm body. 'It's just England,' he thought, closing his eyes.

Wait a minute. Just England?

His eyes shot open just as soon as he had closed them. He could have screamed. He probably should have screamed. In a heartbeat he had kicked his legs madly, freeing himself of the tangled sheets and scooting as far from the other as possible. It was, apparently, a little too far, for he took a tumble right over the side of the bed and landed on his back with an 'Oof!' He tried to scramble back up, but paused halfway and wondered why he was. He let himself fall, his arm still held against the mattress, England's sleep undisturbed.

A million thoughts raced through his mind, but the most frequent was 'Oh my God!' America was heaving, his chest rising and sinking noticeably while he tried his best to compose himself. How could he, though? He had woken up from a good sleep to find England cuddled next to him, and now he was being held prisoner by Arthur's grasp. In fact, England was now sprawled across the bed, having been dragged across when America fell, still clinging to his left arm and pinning him there like handcuffs to a pole.

America had to get his mind together. He began stare at the curtains with sudden interest in the fabric, trying to focus. 'Okay okay, just calm down,' he tried to rationalize. 'So you woke up next to England; what's the harm in that?' In that instant, it all came back to him in one giant fell swoop: the conversation of the night before, the foretelling of the play's – and their – future, and he realized what likely happened. "Please tell me we didn't do it," he murmured miserably. He dared a glance down and noticed that he was completely, 100% pantless.

Alfred whined, leaning his head back and his eyes tightly closed. He thought that whenever he would lose Virginia (what he called it, anyway) that he would at least be happy about it – and actually remember what happened. Had it even been consensual? It must have been, since they were both there when they woke up. He couldn't remember anything except talking with England about what their fate would be, kissing him, and then nothing. 'Wait, wait; I remember kissing him,' he mulled over. Oh no. His hand met his forehead, and he dragged it down across his face, the blush he didn't know was there growing more. Not only had they just slept together, which was still unbelievable, but it had been him that kissed England. "It was just …" He couldn't find an excuse, and it bothered him. "The – the heat of the moment," he whimpered to himself, sinking slightly.

There was another problem: where was Texas? Thankfully, he had enough of his sanity to think about it logically. He glanced up at a small table near the bed and, sure enough, Texas was sitting there. Obviously, it had been removed among other things last night. This was so stupid. He was so stupid. He desperately tried to rationalize all of this and find some sort of positive, but nothing was coming to mind.

Instead, he focused on dragging a free sheet down and wrapping it around his waist. America stared out the balcony and wondered how long it would be until he went out and headed towards whatever city he was going to. He forgot the name, but was sure that Romeo would know. This was his entire fault, anyway. The idea of leaving Verona scared him, though, because he knew what would become of England if he did.

Ten of the most awkward minutes in his life passed, although it felt more like an eternity. He fiddled with his fingers, hummed Gene Autry to himself, avoided thoughts of last night, and wondered when they would go home – if they would ever go home. He sighed quietly and shifted so he was turned around. Was England still asleep? America noticed his left arm was free and figured that Arthur had turned over or something. His hands grabbed the bed and he peeked up slowly. Staring at him with half-conscious eyes was England, who was blinking in the early morning light and trying to get his wits about him.

Shit. Shit. Shit. America froze, his eyes widening as England obviously came to terms with his surroundings. "Uhm," America murmured as England's brows slowly arched and his eyes opened. "G – good morning!" He smiled sheepishly, failing to hide his nervousness and fear that he would be yelled at. "Sleeping Beauty's aw-"

SMACK.

England's hands hit America's face and he used that to launch himself away from the boy and towards the other side of the bed. He tumbled in his tangled mess onto the ground with a shout that made America spring towards the opposite side of the room. Arthur dragged the sheets with his fall and ignored the throbbing pain on his temple. He backed up desperately until he was against the wall, beet-red, staring in shock at the bed. England stood lop-sided, stammering unintelligible words as he tried to piece together the situation. He had just been snuggling next to America's shirtless form and found the boy sitting on the ground. Not only that, but he had to assume the worst: that America was just as bare underneath the sheets around his waist as he was.

England's eyes tightly closed. He didn't even want to look at America. "Y – you …!" he shakingly accused. "This is – this is all your bloody fault!" He gripped the sheets more, his knuckles turning white as he did. He began to cover himself entirely with the sheet while scalding America. "You've done some stupid things, but … but this, this tops the chart!" He was too distressed to actually care if that statistic was true or not. He knew he had control, for not. He was too humiliated to let Juliet's emotions interfere.

Oh, she was overjoyed. She was happy to have seen Romeo still in her room. But, then again, he had just been banished, and the sign of the morning sun meant only one thing: he had to leave. That was something Juliet didn't want at all. England could agree with her. He didn't want to be left alone to deal with Juliet's parents and the torment of a coma by himself. He would never admit it to Alfred – if he could help himself, anyway.

America looked like he had just been slapped in the face. "It's your fault, too!" he hollered in reply. "I'm pretty sure Romeo didn't just jump Juliet or anything!" He was hit with a pillow, one he threw back towards its origin, hitting England square in the face, nearly knocking him over. He would have felt bad, had England not been screaming accusations at him.

"You – just shut up!" England shouted, throwing the pillow back towards Alfred. He reached for the bowl of water and dumped the liquid to the side. "You're the one who initiated the entire thing!" He chucked the waterdish at America and didn't watch to see if it hit its intended mark, because he was looking for a candle or a sword or something to throw at him. A grenade would have sufficed as well.

America, using the pillow as a shield, kept the steel bowl from hitting him and ignored its clattering as it fell to the ground. "If I could have, I woulda stopped him! You could have had Juliet … I dunno, hit him or something!" England didn't bother with a reply. Instead, he glared sharply at America as if he was trying to stab him with his glance. "Look," Alfred tried to reason, "us fighting's not gonna change anything. What… happened – well, it happened, and yeah, it sucks." He paused. "But, we gotta try and … will you look at me already?" Alfred sighed. He was trying to get things straight and England was totally ignoring him. Not surprising. He did that more than America would have liked to remember.

But even after he asked him to pay attention, he didn't get any sort of reply. He took a cautious step towards the unresponsive England, his head tilting. "Hey, Iggy?" He saw England raise a hand to his eyes and heard him sniffling, and guilt started to gnaw at his mind. He had made him cry, again. "I - I didn't mean to – geez, Iggy, don't cry!" America waved his hands and bit his lip anxiously. He should have been used to seeing him crying by now.

"I'm – I'm not crying just b – because of that, you git!" England defended himself, his fists balling and the sheets enclosed within. "Certainly, it doesn't improve matters th - that it happened, b – but…" England's eyes closed, tears sliding down his cheeks. He didn't bother to wipe them away now. There was hardly a point. "Ev – everything is coming true, and …" He inhaled sharply and America could have sworn he trembled. "And, the next time I see you, I'll be waking up from a bloody coma just to f - find you dead!"

America's throat ran dry. He wanted to protest to England's words, but no one could ever defy the truth. 'That's right,' he thought forlornly, 'Romeo dies first.' It didn't matter in the long-run. The characters die, and that alone was horribly enough. However, the more America thought about the sequence of events, his gut churned uncomfortably, and his hands balled into tight fists.

"You think I want to kill myself?" America asked with a desperate tone. England looked up towards him and wiped his cheeks, watching his former colony in confusion. "You think I want you to wake up and see you in a coma?" America took a few steps forward. He noticed England tense up, obviously not wanting him to approach. He wasn't intending to, anyway. He settled on the bed, his back to England and his hands holding the sides of his head.

Alfred's thoughts weighed heavily on his mind. He had seen death in the form of war and had faced it numerous times. But in war, it wasn't a guarantee that they would die. This was different, he felt. Neither he nor England could positively know if all this would occur, but the chance of them dying was much higher than when they had guns pointed at them. "You go into a coma because of me," he spoke after an uncomfortable silence had settled. America's eyes closed and he shook his head slowly. "You have to die because of me."

It wasn't often that America took the blame for anything. He never took the credit for the bad things, and only focused on proclaiming himself a hero in light of good circumstance. For him to be blaming himself was unusual, but England could understand where it was coming from. Green hues looked down to avoid the sight of the blue-eyed country on the bed. "What kinda hero lets that happen?" Alfred finally whispered.

England looked back up as the words came out, and he wiped his eyes again. This stupid boy had gotten the idea drilled into his head because of the First World War. A year - almost two - after America had entered, the war had ended, and he had risen to the world's stage. The eyes of the world were on him from that day forth, and America's ego inflated, causing him to become ditzier, more reckless.

Where was that optimism now? He looked like a country weighed down, the burden of war on his shoulders – literally. America was shirtless still, and England could see the burns and scars of Pearl Harbor on his left shoulder. He saw the scarred flesh and remembered how quickly he and Churchill had gotten to DC after hearing the news. In his mind's eye, he replayed the way that America was bloodied and burned, even if he hadn't been at Battleship Row that Sunday morning, but remembered the small smile America gave that had reassured him that he would survive.

England slowly stood up, still holding the sheet like a robe around his small stature. "Git," he replied. His tone was soft, maybe because he had been crying, or maybe because right now America needed help. It wasn't right for a normally confident person like him to crumble like this. "You don't have any control over this." England sniffled. "If … if we did, we wouldn't be in this bloody mess in the first place." He too sat on the bed, his back facing America. He stared at the spot where he had been sitting and tried to find something else to say. The silence was nearly choking him.

Words bubbled up from in him that he didn't intend to slip out. He didn't intend to let her get any control, but, then again, this was her story and not his. "Wilt thou be gone?" he asked, glancing at America. "It is not near ."

America sighed heavily and shook his head. "England," he began, although he wouldn't get very far. "I must be gone and live, or stay and die." Romeo watched the balcony warily and stood up, the sheet still around him. As he reached for Texas and placed the loyal state back in its proper place, America wondered why Romeo was beginning to leave if it was a punishment worse than death. He said something about that last night, although the previous night was such a blur for Alfred.

England was beginning to get desperate. Juliet's words just weren't going to get through to the person he wanted them to. Romeo could understand every word, but America couldn't, and he didn't give a damn about the former, but the latter was much more important. "Yon light is not day-light, I know it," Arthur replied. He cursed Juliet as he kicked his way off the bed and shuffled to where Alfred was. His hand reached and took a hold of America's toned arm. The move was England's, and he tried to think of the words that would get through America's thick skull.

It was that pause that gave Juliet time to resume her speech. "It is some meteor that the sun exhales," she explained, "to be to three this night a torch-bearer, and light thee on thy way to Mantua." She was talking to Romeo, but England wanted America to stay. Green eyed closed, and England bit his lip. Her personality was coming and going much quicker now, probably because the story would focus on her the moment that America left. 'I don't want you to leave.' That's all it would take for America to stay, right? He was a hero; he wouldn't want to disappoint his ally, would he? It was childish for England to think that, but, at this point in time, he was beginning to feel cornered and scared for what the future of the play would hold. He knew he didn't want to deal with all of that by himself, and he certainly didn't fancy the idea of America and him dying.

"America." This got his attention, and he knew Romeo had, for the moment, faded away. His forehead gently pressed to the taller nation's back, and he hid his face. The bright red blush was to be expected at this point, but he was going out on a limb and he didn't want to be made fun of. "Pl – please." England tightly closed his eyes, brows knitting as he took in a shaky breath. They had been in a position like this before. "Don't go," he murmured weakly, his normally strong constitution fading. He must have looked ridiculous, but he didn't care. Their lives were on the line. They would both die if America walked out to that balcony and dropped down below. He knew how hopeless it was. But, like Alfred would say, it was still worth a try.

America glanced over his shoulder, a lost look in his eyes. He had said that before. England said that the fateful eighteenth-century night that Arthur broke down. He remembered the hand on his blue uniform's cuff, tugging desperately, crying against the rain, begging him to stay. He had walked away – but he didn't have a choice. Now, when he absolutely didn't want to leave, when they couldn't help it either way, he couldn't stay. He had to go.

He turned. England's hand dropped, but America caught his wrist and his attention. Alfred looked at England and tried to speak, but nothing would come how. He had a feeling that even saying anything would provide Romeo room to say something stupid (and something he couldn't understand, of course). 'I have more care to stay than will to go,' he thought to himself. It was a few moments after that he realized that Romeo had thought it, and he would have groaned, knowing that they could infiltrate their minds, too, had the situation not been so serious.

America took a breath and tried to talk again. "Eng-" He wasn't sure why, but calling him by his title felt odd with the circumstances. "Arthur," he spoke. It felt odd. Saying his human name felt too … personal. Maybe that's what he was going for. It got his attention, but America had trouble following it up. "I …" Nothing else came out.

They shared a glance and during the quiet moment, a mutual understanding passed through their eyes: there was almost a guarantee of no escaping this. America could lie and say that he would try not to leave – which he would – but they both knew that he had to and would. England looked down, defeated, and America followed the glance, still holding Arthur's wrist in his fingertips.

What could they do?

Alfred's brows rose when he felt England's hand move so he was returning the gentle grasp. He looked at Arthur in slight confusion. "It'll be alright," Arthur spoke quietly. The tone of his voice betrayed his words. His shoulders shook, and he inhaled a trembling breath. "It'll – it'll be alright." Was he trying to convince himself? America? Both of them? America didn't know. Neither did England.

He wasn't normally one to be so openly vulnerable. He was usually able to control any fear he felt and wasn't one to hold someone's hand and cry. Juliet wasn't like he was, though, and her influence on him was growing. Later, England felt like he'd have to justify his ridiculous actions to America. He was half surprised the taller one hadn't made fun of him already. Then again, they were going to die. Making fun of someone he knew would be apparently dead the next time he saw him wasn't like America, England figured. It wasn't like any human.

America swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. England's hand was gripping America's tighter than before, and Alfred returned the squeeze. He wasn't convinced by England's words. He felt that their speaker wasn't convinced either. For now, he would stay silent. He moved so their foreheads touched, and he was almost surprised that England returned the motion, nudging him back, as if he was desperate for the contact. America closed his eyes. Romeo was the one trying to comfort Juliet. If he had his way, Alfred could have grabbed Arthur, skipped the comforts, and would be sprinting as fast as he could to Mantua. But, he couldn't have his way. He felt like he never would in this nightmare. "Y – yeah. It'll be alright," he murmured in reply.

America would guess that this is what crushed hope felt like.

"Madam!"

Their heads snapped to the door, where in came the nurse looking frantic. A blush crossed both their faces at the same time at her raised eyebrow. America was about to open his mouth to explain the circumstances but England had already shoved him away – so hard, in fact, that America tumbled in a roll to the ground with a grunt. England shifted uncomfortably and looked to the nurse, expecting the worse. America was rolling around, tangled in his sheet and trying to stand up. "Help me!" he grunted to England, kicking him in the ass with a flailing foot.

England's eyebrow twitched. He whirled around and snatched America's angle and gave it a tug. "Don't kick me again, you git," he shouted.

Even with the dark circumstances, they could still be their old selves if it gave them a reason to hold an argument.

"Your lady mother is coming to your chamber," the nurse spoke with franticness seeping into her voice. "The day is broke; be wary, look about!"

'Don't remind me,' England groaned mentally. He saw America struggling to get into his pants, and he turned bright red, his glance turned away. He noticed the Nurse eyeing Romeo with a bit of interest as he tugged his tunic on. A wave of jealousy washed over England – no, it washed over Juliet. Forget that this was her nurse and she loved her, and Juliet didn't have a single jealous bone in her body. No way was it England. 'Ridiculous,' he thought with a grunt.

America hair was tussled and wild from the sheets being tugged on and off his head. He tripped slightly, rising too quickly, and landed against England's back, causing the smaller, less than patient form to crash onto the bed. Alfred fell on top of Arthur and remained there briefly before he remembered that he was on his way out. He figured that, given the circumstances, he would have rather remained laying on top of a naked-under-the-sheet England on a bed than head outside and to his death. He snatched England by the arm and ran to the balcony, leaving the nurse alone in the room.

America moved to take off already, Romeo's adrenaline scaring him into leaving. He put his leg down over the balcony and descended. One foot remained on the balcony floor with his hands on the railing. He took a breath and prepared to go down, but England's hand on his wrist stopped him. "O think'st thou we shall ever meet again?" Juliet asked, eyes filled with pleading as they looked down at Romeo.

It wasn't Romeo looking back. It was America, and he didn't need to understand the Shakespearean speech to know what he asked. (He didn't understand him, anyway.) England's eyes told it all. He watched, his face calm but his eyes sad. He hoisted himself up so his once bent legs were straight and he hung onto the railing as he stood. He looked down, one hand taking England's. Arthur blinked and looked up at America. "England-"

The older country cut him off, visage filled with worry. "America, you have to go." England's tone made it seem like he was at war within himself. He was, conflicting over whether America was better off running to Mantua or staying and risking death. Dare they defy the script, even if past attempts at dodging Shakespeare's will were in vain?

Alfred shook his head like he would as a child, when he was being defiant and was disobeying England. "No," he whispered. "I don't want to." His eyes were shut tight.

England wasn't sure, but he thought he heard fear in Alfred's voice. America was strong and refused to show any sign of weakness, any Achilles' heal, so fear wasn't ever in his confident voice. Arthur bit his lip. "I – I don't want you to, either," he replied quietly. He wanted to leave the conversation at that and have him stay. "But you have to. You'll be killed if you don't!"

"I don't care," America hissed lowly. His hand trembled from the lack of balance on the balcony. His eyes opened, head tilted down. When he gathered his courage and words, he looked up, blue eyes looking into green hues, like he would pierce straight into England's heart. "I don't want to leave you," he spoke. If he left, they would both die. But if he left, he would be breaking a promise he made to himself: that he wouldn't leave England behind in this mess.

Before England could reply, Romeo took over and reached up, pulling Juliet down into a kiss. The two kissed desperately for a moment before Alfred pulled away. For once, he wasn't blushing at England. "I won't die," he spoke with a determined voice, his fingers gently tracing England's cheek. Romeo looked to the ground and back up again, whispering, "Adieu, adieu!" And with that, he scaled back down to the ground. With one last, forlorn look up to England, America choked back a shout and turned, heading towards the wall – and to Mantua.

England's eyes didn't leave the fleeing form until he was over the wall. Even then, Arthur could imagine America running to the main road out of town. England's grip on the railing tightened, and he had to choke back a cry. One hand went to his mouth to keep a sob from escaping. His green eyes closed, and England felt that familiar urge to cry rising once again.

The next time he would see America, he would be dead on the floor of the Capulet tomb.

"Ho, daughter! are you up?"

The call of Juliet's mother awoke the Capulet daughter inside England. Arthur's conscious remained on Alfred. He turned, his body becoming numb and his senses fading slowly. He said something, but he couldn't determine the words. 'She must be taking control,' he thought with an almost uncaring sigh. He would have to suffer with Juliet for the next few days until the stupid girl put herself into a coma. Fear gripped England's heart. After all of this, after this struggle with this girl, her problems, and her hormones, it would end with a coma and suicide. He swore the last action he did consciously, in control of his body, was ball his hand into a fist. America promised not to die.

He would hold it to him.