AN: Here it is, chapter five. I don't have a huge amount to say about this, apart from the ever-present apology for any spelling or grammar mistakes. I hope you enjoy it, and PLEASE REVIEW! I love knowing what you think, even if it's not positive.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers. Or facebook. Or pineapples.

Gilbert's earliest memory was of bird watching with his mother. She would wake him at some impossibly early time, when the sun was nothing more than a burning line on the horizon.

Warm fingers stroking his cheek and slipping through his hair, a soft voice that dragged him from the meaningless abyss of sleep, and a pair of bright eyes in the pre-dawn darkness. He would stumble from his bed, tugging on clothes and yawning, and together they would creep like shadows from the house.

They went out across the dual carriageway, through the patch of woods and into a field beyond, a clearing the farmer had abandoned years ago. His mother would sit in the soft grass and tug him onto her lap, pressing a finger to his mouth for silence.

She timed it perfectly. Seconds later he would hear the quiet chirp of the first bird, which soon built into a chorus of high, fluting song.

By the time he was six years old Gilbert could identify each bird by sound alone; the catlike "turr" of the dove, the buzzing, nasal call of the willow tit, the repetitive trill of the chaffinch. They caressed his young ears like old friends, as comforting as his mother's strong arms wrapped around him.

Ludwig accompanied them a few times, but he was grouchy and irritable, too young to understand how magical the experience was. Besides, Gilbert preferred it when he was alone with his mother.

Even when she had to go into hospital, he would drag his father out of bed and beg him to drive there, just so that he could sit beside her as the dawn chorus began.

That was a long time ago, of course. These days, if left alone he usually didn't surface until after noon. Occasionally, however, he woke up in darkness, moments before the sun rose. He guessed it was some kind of lingering remnant of the life he'd once lived.

This morning, the day after the somewhat disastrous party, was one of those ones. He had woken up with damp cheeks, panting heavily, terrified, although he couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about.

Francis was sprawled out on his bed, limbs everywhere, and Gilbert was very tempted to shove him off onto the floor. He resisted the urge, and instead rummaged in his wardrobe for a pair of jeans and an ancient sweatshirt.

He now sat in the tree directly opposite his bedroom window, high above the pavement. It was a familiar position; he'd spent hours crouched amongst the leaves in his childhood, especially after his mother had died.

He used to snap twigs off the branches and throw them at unsuspecting people walking below him, cackling when they hit. He wasn't a very good shot; the sticks usually bounced off their shoulders. As far as he could remember, no one had ever been rushed to hospital with twigs sticking out of their nostrils or eyes.

He was bigger now, obviously, but he still managed to find a somewhat comfortable position to sit and watch the sun crawl above the horizon. There was a lump in the pocket of his hoodie: he reached in and pulled out a battered packet of cigarettes.

Gilbert grinned.

Put them back. Put them back right now. Actually, even better, go back into the house and throw them into the nearest dustbin or incinerator.

The Ludwig-voice sounded a little muffled. Perhaps it was suffering from Gilbert's hangover, too.

Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not going to smoke them, am I? I don't even have a lighter on me.

No, but as I know very well you have twelve hidden in various parts of your room.

Hidden? I wouldn't say they're hidden. There's one on my bedside table. Not exactly well concealed.

The specifics do not matter! You need to get rid of them!

You really don't have any faith in me at all, do you? Wow. Not even the Voice of my subconscious believes that I have the willpower to give up smoking.

Sometimes I doubt that you have the willpower to breathe.

Breathing doesn't require willpower, smart-arse. And I haven't touched a cigarette in seven months. So fuck off back to your trigonometry castle or wherever it is that you hang out when you're not busy pissing me off.

Trigonometry castle? That doesn't make sense…

Gilbert waited for a few more seconds, but it appeared that the Voice had gone. He turned the creased packet over in his hands, remembering how much he'd coughed the first time he'd tried one and how Toni had thought that he was dying.

The rush of nicotine flooding his bloodstream, the plumes of smoke curling out of his mouth as though he were a dragon.

He shoved them back into his pocket, and shimmied down the tree.

Another day, another temptation.

Gilbert was lying on the sofa, finishing the remains of a can of beer he'd found on the floor and watching Super Friends, when he heard the scream. It was followed by a manlier shout, which Gilbert recognised from somewhere.

He couldn't quite recall where, though. His mind felt a little fuzzy, probably a combination of sleep deprivation and early-morning alcohol.

Suddenly, Ludwig appeared in front of him, and Gilbert remembered exactly where he'd heard that sound before. At his fifteenth birthday party, when he'd used his brand-new water pistol to squirt jelly into his brother's eyes.

"There is someone in my bed," Ludwig growled, voice low and dangerously controlled.

"Lucky boy."

Gilbert tried to give him a cheeky wink, but his eyelid got stuck halfway down and he just ended up twitching. Well, Ludwig would get the message.

The 'Ooh, I'm implying that sex has happened' message, not the 'I need to see a doctor about these facial tremors' message. They were surprisingly easy to confuse…

"Holen sie ihn raus. Jetzt!"

Oh, shit, the German's coming out. That's never a good sign.

Gilbert held up his hands in the international 'easy, tiger' gesture, and reluctantly dragged himself off the sofa.

"Okay, okay," he mumbled, "I'll sort it."

Gilbert collided with the problem, who was blonde and pale, at the top of the stairs.

"You!" he announced, "Were you in my brother's bed?"

The person lifted their head. It was Matthew. There were dark circles around his eyes, and he looked a little greyer than normal.

"Yeah," he said, his voice scratchy, "I think so. I don't know how I got there… I just woke up and he was looming over me."

"Bad choice," Gilbert told him, "He snores like a pig. Actually, I don't know if pigs snore. I don't have a lot of contact with pigs. I must do some research…"

Mattie's nose wrinkled. "Are you drunk?"

Gilbert frowned at him. "No. Not at all. Not even a little bit. Well, maybe a little bit. Or more than a little bit. Actually, quite a lot. So yes. Yes I am."

Mattie shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay," he sighed, "Well, I'm going to go before I have another run in with your brother. I- I guess I'll see you around."

Gilbert watched him hurry down the stairs, and out of the front door. He had the strangest feeling that he'd just made a really awful mistake, one that he was going to beat himself up about later, and regret for a long time.

"Bruder, what happened last night?"

Ludwig had appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a smashed bottle in one hand and a pair of lacy panties in the other.

He looked intensely confused.

"Frannie, I need your help."

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Gilbert snickered to himself at the pun. Call, geddit? Yeah...

"I'm busy. Which of my services do you require?"

"You do realise that you sound like a prostitute when you say that, don't you? Or was that the effect you were going for?"

"To restrict my talents to paying customers would strip the poor and needy of a necessity. I am not that cruel, mon cher."

"Whatever, Frenchy. I wasn't going to call, but..."

Gilbert shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't good at asking for help. He never had been. But Francis had charmed his way into more girls (and boys) hearts (and pants) than anyone else he knew.

"Don't keep me waiting."

"I need help with" -urgh- "something romantic."

There was a pause, then a rueful chuckle.

"Let me guess: mon petit cousin?"

Damn that french bastard.

"Stop being so fucking smug. He's ignoring me."

"Matheiu? He wouldn't do that. He's too sweet."

"When I call him, it goes onto voicemail. When I log onto Facebook, he immediately becomes unavailable. And yesterday, when I finally managed to track him down in the library, he said he couldn't talk to me because he had to go and wash his hamster."

"...Maybe that was an innuendo?"

"How would that make it any better? Besides, I doubt he even knows what an innuendo is."

"Perhaps he really did have a dirty, ah, hamster."

"No! It's one of those excuses that people give when they don't want to see you, like- like 'I have to go and see a man about a dog' or 'I need to go and buy some bread' or 'I have a pineapple shoved up my arse'."

"Er, Gilbert? That's not a phrase. People don't say that."

"They don't? Well, they will."

"Oh, mon ami. You are so hopeless."

"Could you for once in your life stop being a patronising asshole and give me some advice!"

"Relax. I have the perfect plan..."

"Your eyes are blue like water
Well, water's not actually blue it just reflects off the sky
(We learnt about that in science class at primary school)
Your hair is yellow like a yellow thing
A yellow bird or a yellow lemon
Or diarrhoea when you eat too much fruit
Your smile is rare
Like the Visayan Warty Pig
And you're quite short."

Matthew finished reading and glanced helplessly at Arthur, who was wearing an expression of horrified disbelief.

"What was that?" the British boy demanded. Matthew looked back at the tatty piece of lined paper with the words scrawled on it.

"I think it's a poem," he said, "It was in my locker."

Arthur looked skeptical.

"I don't know what that is," he said eventually, "But it is not a poem."

Gilbert, watching them from behind a potted plant, swore to himself. He yanked his phone out of his pocket, hit speed dial and pressed it to his ear.

"Franny!" he hissed, "Your super-duper awesome special fun plan was SHIT."

"What? Didn't he like it? I don't understand. Love poems have been part of courtship rituals for centuries!"

"You've failed me, you French bastard."

"Wait- did your poem rhyme?"

"..."

"It didn't, did it."

"Poems don't have to rhyme!"

Gilbert snapped the phone shut, ending the call.

Time for plan B.

Next chapter should be up relatively soon. Please review! All comments are appreciated.