This, Arthur sighs, sprawled out on his back atop the bobbing deck, is utterly ridiculous.

You cross your arms behind your head and hum in agreement. Utterly ridiculous, mon cher, and utterly tragic as well. But, there shall be no one to write of our tragedy, will there? If they keep up with all this. Unlike before, when we at least had biased history textbooks to remember our mortal comrades by.

Yes. For the love of the Queen, yes.

It's been, you believe, roughly a month and a half since what you now refer to as the Great Invasion has started. You, Arthur, and perhaps seven other former nations (most of them being ex-colonies of yours), have gone into hiding on a relatively small ship of Arthur's, the Bleeding Frog, a name which you know was fully meant to insult you.

You and the others been busy, Arthur's made sure of it. Basically, you have been sailing around and causing trouble for the people who apparently called themselves "Player Two's", in the form of stopping by the coast of a ruined country, and helping as many people as possible out of the chaos your alternates have created. Reverse-piracy, Arthur called it, to which several scoffed. Peter was annoyingly enthusiastic about the whole business; he seems to have gotten a heightened sense of importance and from what you observe, apparently thinks himself a regular little Robin Hood, the little fool.

You no longer hold any obligation to your countries, but you help your citizens and other country's citizens partly out of habitual concern, and partly because you can't seem to think of anything else to do.

Partly, because you know Arthur needs to busy his hands and his mind, or he'll surely go mad.

You've been mainly sailing in the vicinity of Europe, though you did pick up Seychelles (No, not Seychelles anymore, Angelique.) on her little island, stopping to gawk at the facedown body she left floating in the waves, and the triumphant smirk on her face, It took you guys long enough, non?

You know not of the fate of most of Asia, or the Americas. Whenever you have tried to breach this subject with Arthur, he'd simply scowl and tersely bite out, We'll discuss that later.

Against your better judgment, you breach the subject again.

Anglettere, you drawl, I know you're worried about your Alfred. Just like I'm worried about Matthieu.

Of course I'm worried, you old lout. He mutters tiredly, and in the dark you can vaguely make out a head covered in a messy mop of hair lolling to the side.

You hoist yourself up on your elbows, facing him; even though in the nearly moonless night and lack of a lantern, proper eye contact is out of the question. Then, why don't we try to venture across the Atlantic Ocean? Perhaps we will be less worried if we see them for ourselves.

A moment of silence. You know it doesn't work that way, you malefactor. He finally says gruffly.

You cluck your tongue and chuckle. Ah, I see. You're worried of what you might see. You're worried that they might already be gone and Dead that you could have saved them while you were busy rounding up this ragtag crew of yours,, oui?

Another moment of silence, a more uncomfortable one; and you can barely see his hands moving to his face.

…Arthur, You sigh irritably, People we've run into have all been saying the same thing. They say he's fine, that Matthieu's fine, and that the two have been trying to help the South Americans in some kind of heroism stunt. They aren't Dead, and paying them a visit will surely not do us any harm.

Unreliable, he mutters, I do not trust what your damned word of mouth claims, it's all a game of Telephone, and for all I know he could've been gone since day one. And seeing that for myself, I won't be able to bloody handle that on top of all this, and I doubt you would either.

Of all the people that you think would survive this sort of global comeuppance, do you not think it would be those two? Angleterre, you must know by now, I am not an optimistic person, but even I am sure that what they've been saying is true.

The scowl on his face is palpable, and you cannot even see it.

You need to trust them, you continue. You must trust that they were capable enough to come out of it alright. After all, they were raised by none other than us.

Silence, once more, but you can tell that it is one of honest contemplation rather than a suppressed need to cry, or throttle your neck. Finally, he speaks. Alright, fine. We leave tomorrow.

And then he adds, I hate it, when you're right. I hate you, when you're right.

You lean over his face, and you feel your mouth ghost the surface of his forehead, and you can tell the luxurious tangles of your hair is tickling his nose and down-turned lips. When he growls and swats you away with a calloused knuckle to the cheek, you simply smirk and lay back down; closing your eyes.

Then, mon musaraigne peu, you must hate me all the time.

You lay there a little longer, listening to the rolling waves, and when you open your eyes again, Arthur is gone.

A/N:

Oops, my ships are showing.

So, yes, Arthur's made his own little "pirate crew", meanwhile Alfred and Matthew have been trying to assist their southern neighbors.

Also, mon musaraigne peu, I believe, means "my little shrew"? Correct me if I'm wrong.