Dro: -too sleepy to write coherent sentences-

Chapter Summary: Prussia...gets shocking news...-yawn- Artie has an argument with Al...awkward situation. -yawn-

Warnings: Language; Violence

Disclaimer: Will "Don't own" suffice?

It just wasn't enough that he was nearly drowning in his guilt, was it? He tapped his fingers against the wood of the dining room table, idly following the lines of the grain. He was partially happy. This was, quite possibly, the first time in months he'd sat down at a table that didn't have some sort of paperwork on it. However, he'd quickly realized that having nothing to left him to stew in his own misery. And what great misery it was! He'd been reunited with his alternate bruder for mere hours, been given an incredibly important task, and completely failed at it not much later. Yes, he was a great replacement for his own Ludwig, wasn't he?

He just couldn't believe he'd lost Feliciano. That version of Italy—though sad and angry—was obviously not like their own. He was rather ditzy and immensely kind, and Gilbert had grown to like him very quickly. Only for this to happen. He had sworn to Ludwig that he'd protect the man, and he had broken that swear. He currently had every man he could spare looking for the poor lost boy, and he desperately hoped they found something soon. It had been somewhat of a reassuring sign that Feliciano's body hadn't been found, but he was getting steadily more worried by the hour as nothing was reported by his men. It was true that Feliciano could have been swept away with the crowds, but Gilbert severely doubted he was just huddling with some other refugees that had fled the affected areas.

For one, someone would have recognized the infamous missing war criminal by this point if that had been the case. Which, of course, had Gilbert all the more worried. His own government agents knew who Feliciano was, but most people didn't, including some security forces and the police. If anyone of them found Feliciano and he resisted arrest, then…Gott, he didn't even want to think about what would happen. He'd sent an order to all the local police units and security teams, instructing them not to fire on Italy if they saw him, but he knew the order had probably gone out far too late. It would take time to reach all of them, and by then…

He let his forehead land roughly on the table, not caring about aggravating the migraine that had already sprouted in his head. How had he managed to make such a mess of everything so quickly was mindboggling. Everything had been running so smoothly, and then it had all fallen to pieces in a matter of hours. He hadn't even had a clue that Russia was planning an attack. Granted, he hadn't known Russia was back from the dead at the time, but that really wasn't an excuse. As many highly trained security forces as he had in Berlin, someone should have seen or heard something. Unless…he groaned at the possibility. Unless Russia had loyalists or Yao had agents hiding amongst them. He slammed his fist on the table. During the restoration of Berlin, he'd pretty much accepted every volunteer he could find. There was just so much to rebuild, so much to restore. It was very possible that someone with ulterior motives had slipped into his midst. And all the records had been damaged, so he hadn't even been able to check if most of them were even German citizens at the time. Europe had had to devise an entirely new immigration and citizenship system because almost everyone had been displaced at some point.

There were just so many holes that they could have slipped through, and he hadn't even been considering that at the time. This was a disaster. He was a disaster. All of this—

"Sir, we just received several very detailed reports."

He sat up in seat, blinking wearily at the guard who had just walked through the door. "Anything interesting?"

"Yes."

"Like what?" He cringed at the throbbing in his head.

"Do you want something for that, sir?"

"Yes, please. But it can wait until after your explanation. Go ahead."

He coughed before beginning. "Well, sir. We sent out your orders to all the police stations, and, well…you're not going to like this, but, on the day that the attacks happened, a group of first responders—the nearest police units—arrived at your location. They reported that they found North Italy standing over your unconscious body, and they assumed he was attacking you."

Gilbert's stomach began to churn. "Oh Gott…"

"They opened fire, but he ran and managed to escape."

"Shit." He cursed himself. He knew something like this had to have happened. But Gott he'd wished been wrong. "What else?"

"That's it concerning sightings of Italy. We've pretty much swept the entire city by this point and found no trace of him. It's likely—if he's alive, that is—that he's no longer in Berlin."

"Expand the search, then."

"Yes, sir, we will. However, we received an interesting report just this morning that may possibly be connected to him. But, the thing is, we're unsure if this indicates North Italy's presence or…someone else's."

Gilbert stiffened. He recognized that tone of voice. "Russia?"

"Possibly."

"Well, what is it, exactly?"

The response was hesitant. "Late last night, South Italy was broken out of prison."

He leapt up, the chair clattering to the floor. "Excuse me?"

"Please, sir, don't jump to conclusions. When I first heard, I also thought the same thing you are no doubt thinking. However, upon further investigation, you'll see that something just doesn't add up."

"So you're saying Russia didn't break him out?" He tried to steady his breathing.

"Well, that's the thing, sir. We've seen the footage of the incident and…it's just…not right."

"What do you mean?" He leaned against the table for support, his migraine making him exceedingly lightheaded.

"The tape shows two people, one South Italy and one a masked person, escaping…while being pursued by three other masked people. South Italy and his accomplice harmed no one in their escape, but the three pursuers killed several guards before escaping themselves. Unscathed. And more unsettling, a hidden camera—as the main ones in South Italy's cell block were mysteriously disabled—caught what appeared to be the three masked men preparing to assassinate South Italy before he was rescued by the single unknown person."

Gilbert blinked several times. "Well, that certainly doesn't sound right."

"No, sir, it doesn't. We've analyzed the footage over and over, and we still have no idea what happened."

Gilbert rubbed one of his temples. None of this was making any sense. "Wait, you said you though might be connected to Italy? You think he may have been the person that helped South Italy?" He tried to picture it, but it just didn't seem like the type of thing that Italy was capable it.

"It's a theory, sir. We have no real leads yet on the truth."

"Right, well, keep looking. On all fronts. For anything."

"Yes, sir."

He barely managed to bend over and haul his chair back up before nearly losing his balance and sinking into it. He covered his eyes, trying to block out not only the offending light but the world itself, wishing it would all just go away and he wake up back before any of this shit had happened. Everything he'd worked for, everything he'd rebuilt…gone in a matter of hours.

Just….gone.

He stretched, stifling a yawn. They hadn't really made much progress at all today, and it was starting to discourage him even more. If the nations couldn't get their priorities straight and starting planning to counteract Russia's attempts to regain his former dominance, then they were all screwed to hell. Probably literally. Every moment they wasted with their pointless bickering and inane political squabbles, Russia was getting further and further ahead. If they didn't do something soon, they would reach a point where it would be impossible to catch up to him.

"Hey."

He jumped, spinning around on the comforter to see Al standing in the door. "Oh, it's just you."

Al's eyes grew concerned. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "You all right?" He made his way over to the bed and sank down next to him. "Look, I know you've been feeling guilty and stressed and everything, but you really need to relax. Worrying yourself until you can't even think straight isn't going to help anyone."

Artie sighed. "I know that, Alfred. I just…I just can't seem to get over it." I'm worrying about so much more than you know. And I want to tell you. I really do. But I can't. Because it will destroy us, Alfred. Completely. "I'm sure it'll pass eventually, but I won't lie. It's really dragging me down. I'm repeating the same mistakes I made four years ago. I've let him get this far ahead in so little time. I'm starting to fear we won't be able to stop him period, much less before he does any major damage."

Al wrapped an arm around him and kissed his temple. "I think you should sit out of the meeting tomorrow morning."

"What?" He pulled away.

"Arthur, listen. You're really stressed out, and everyone can see it. No one will blame you for taking some time to rest and get your thoughts together."

"And what? I should have the special privilege of doing that over everyone else?"

Al frowned. "Look, Arthur. You just need to…" He trailed off as Artie's expression shifted into anger.

"You're asking to me to take time off because you think I've been mentally damaged by my captivity, aren't you?" He narrowed his gaze. "Or is it that you think I've been compromised? You think I'm a spy?"

"Whoa!" Al held up his hands in surrender. "No! No one's suggesting anything like that. But, Arthur…even you have to admit…you've been through a lot in the past few weeks. You were tortured, Arthur. And I blame myself for not being able to get you out of there before it happened. Hell, I blame myself for not catching on to Yao. Look, I swear no one thinks you're weak or scarred or anything. We just think you should lay down and take some time to rest and recover your strength. You've barely gotten any sleep. Even last night, Arthur, when nothing was happening. Don't think I didn't notice. Did you even sleep at all?"

"Yes, I've been sleeping just fine." A complete lie.

And Al knew it. "Arthur…please. Just do this for me. I don't want to see anything bad happen to you because you're too fatigued to fight at full strength and think straight. We need you. For a lot of reasons. No one would dare suggest anything else. You were the one who led us all to victory last time, who stopped Russia from crushing Europe. We need you, and we want you. But we need you at full strength. And you're obviously not."

"I'm fine, damn it. Why won't you listen to me?" He rose from the bed and stomped over to the window.

Al groaned. "See, this is exactly what I'm talking about. You're behaving erratically, Arthur. Can't you see that? Your body is drained, and it's taking a toll on your mind. Not to mention you're letting your guilty conscience eat away at your resolve. Please, Arthur. I'm begging you here. Please rest. Just for a day or two."

"Russia could quite possibly take over the world in two days."

"Arthur!" Al exclaimed, exasperated. "Listen to yourself. Everything that comes out of your mouth is about Russia! Yes, we need to stop him. Yes, this is a terrible situation. But if we don't come at him with full strength and full mental capacity, we will lose."

"Oh, now you're doubting my mental capacity?"

"Arthur…are you even hearing yourself speak?"

"Yes. Very much so." He continued to stare out the window, blinking slowly every few seconds. His eyelids felt so heavy, but every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was death and destruction and…Alfred. Not Al. But Alfred. And ironically, that was what was tearing him apart the most. Al's touch still felt cold and empty. They'd tried to have sex several times already, and it always ended the same way. With him pulling away before anything at all happened. Because he just felt…empty whenever Al touched him. This man, who he loved so very much—he knew he did—could no longer elicit any response whatsoever from him. No matter how hard he tried to jumpstart his emotions. Nothing happened. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It was the oddest feeling, knowing he loved Al and yet being unable to feel the love that was supposed to be there. And yet, when thought of Alfred, everything completely reversed. He knew the bond was at fault. Of course it was. Just like it had connected their bodies, it had connected their minds, their emotions. Even if they couldn't consciously notice it—yet—their feelings had been artificially altered. He hadn't seen the change in Alfred, but he knew it was there. It had to be. Alfred was just doing a much better job at hiding it than he was.

"Arthur…"

"Just leave me alone."

"Arthur, please…"

"Go away."

Al finally snapped. "This is my room."

"Fine." He whipped around and marched past a stunned Al, who couldn't seem to believe he'd just said what he'd said. "I'll leave you then."

"Arthur, you can't mean—"

He slammed the door shut before he caught the end of that. No, he didn't mean that. He never wanted to mean that. But for all knew, he would very soon. And there was a possibility that he could do nothing to stop it. He wandered through the hallways, wondering if Al would chase after him. When he didn't appear, Artie made his way down the stairs and toward the front door. There was a guard posted just outside who nodded as he walked by.

"I'm just going out for some air. To the pond. I'll be back soon."

The man just nodded again.

The dew was cool on his bare feet, and he relished it. He let himself bask in the night air, his way lit only by the moon and stars. It had been many years since he'd let himself be guided by nature. It was a thing of the distant past here in this technology-oriented present. But he liked the past. Well, some parts of it, at least. The dirt path down to the lake wound around trees, following the layout of the land. He knew there were men stationed all around the perimeter of the property, so he made sure he didn't stray from the path. The last thing he needed was to get shot by friendly fire.

When the pond came into view, he let himself relax.

For all of two seconds.

Because there was someone else at the pond too. And before he could retreat, the man turned around.

"Artie?"

"Alfred…" His legs started taking him forward of their own accord, and he found himself standing next to his biggest fear, just beyond the reach of the pond's waters.

"What…what are you doing out here?" Alfred asked stiffly. He was nervous. Nervous because he was afraid he couldn't control himself around Artie. Or at least that was Artie's guess. Because that was exactly how he felt at this point.

"Air. I needed air."

Alfred cleared his throat. "Oh. Yeah, me too. It's kind of stifling in the house."

"Very." They both stared out at the calm waters.

"So…how are…things?" When Artie didn't reply, he tried again. "Oh, by the way, I'm sorry about the bruised knee. I wasn't being careful enough during the ambush…"

"It's fine. It's just superficial. I don't really care about that. Everyone gets bumps and bruises and scrapes."

"Of course…"

Something seemed to slowly unravel in Artie's mind, and he felt compelled to ask: "Alfred, do you still love Arthur?"

"Eh? What…what kind of question is that? Of course I do!"

The unraveling thread suddenly snapped, and he whipped around, grabbing Alfred by the front of his shirt. "No! I did not ask you if you know you should love Arthur. I asked you if you do. Answer me honestly!" Alfred began to pale considerably, and Artie felt every fear he'd ever had about his relationship with Al flare up. "Alfred, answer me." He ordered. He was trying his best to resist the compulsion to lean closer, but he was failing, his face gradually drifting closer to Alfred's. Alfred did not pull away or try to stop him.

"I…" He tried to answer. "I…I can't…I…"

Artie leaned up, beginning to close the gap between them. He wanted to resist this at all costs, but he wasn't sure he could fight it anymore. A tear slipped down his cheek. He had loved Al for so long, and he knew with all his being that that love should have still been there.

But it wasn't.

Their lips brushed—

"I—"

"Alfred!"

The pushed away from each other, both of them stumbling backward. Their heads snapped to the right just as Arthur's form emerged from the trees.

"Alfred, are you—Oh! There you…" his eyes landed on Artie, "…are." He glanced from one to the other. "So, what are you two…talking…about?"

Dro: Awkward...

Next Chapter: Feli and Lovi...-yawn-...talk about what's happening...Feli makes a request...The group of nations...is attacked...-falls asleep-