Chapter Ten! This is the longest one yet, believe it or not. I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers, or the poetry of William S Gilbert.

"Mr Jones?"

Alfred's gaze stayed miserably fixed on the square patch of carpet in front of his desk. There was a whitish smudge in the middle of it, where some thoughtless teenager had dropped a blob of gum on the floor. It had since been trampled on by hundreds of oblivious students, rendering it nothing more than a vague, sticky patch staining the carpet.

"Mr Jones!"

A pair of dull brown brogues suddenly entered his line of vision. He followed them upwards to find his english teacher, Mr Graham, glaring down at him.

"Do you intend to pay any semblance of attention this lesson?"

Alfred had long since learned that in times like this, the question was fairly rhetorical. Giving an honest answer was hardly ever appreciated.

"That's it." The teacher reached up to adjust his glasses. "You can read out the poem you've chosen."

He had a pimple on his nose. Alfred couldn't stop staring at it. He was vaguely aware that the guy was talking, but his words were hazy and unclear.

"You did bring an emotive poem to analyse, didn't you Mr Jones?"

Alfred blinked up at the teacher as the syllables finally arranged themselves into a sentence.

"Yeah," he assured the brown-haired man, "I did the homework."

"Good," Mr Graham snapped, "Get up then, and read your poem to the class."

Alfred looked down at the mess of papers on his desk, which he had been using as a makeshift (and not very comfortable) pillow. He shot Mr Graham what he hoped was a winning grin and began rummaging through them, trying to find the elusive sheet on which he had scribbled the poem.

A light tap on his shoulder informed him that Kiku, sitting next to him, was attempting to get his attention. "I'm busy," Alfred hissed, throwing paper onto the floor as Mr Graham's fists became slowly more clenched.

A moment later, Kiku quietly cleared his throat. "Seriously, man, I need to find this," Alfred told him without glancing away from his heroic quest. Where was that damn poem? Alfred grabbed his notepad and rifled through it, although he was fairly certain that he hadn't written it in there.

"Alfred-san," Kiku said. His voice was little more than a whisper, but it seemed to carry an edge of authority.

"What is it?" Alfred exclaimed, completely exasperated, and turned to look at the Japanese boy. Kiku was staring at him with his usual blank expression, and in his outstretched hand- the runaway poem!

"Oh, man, thanks!" Al cried, snatching up the piece of paper. Kiku's cheeks flushed a dull pink, but Alfred- already pushing back his seat to stand up- didn't notice.

"Uh, this is a poem by a guy called William S. Gilbert. He was English…" Alfred trailed off, his eyelids drooping, but recovered a second later.

"So, yeah. I'll read it now:

Love, unrequited, robs me of my rest…"

The students began to glance at one another as their star quarterback's voice cracked. Kiku shook his head almost unnoticeably to himself. Alfred coughed and continued.

"Love, hopeless love, my ardent soul encumbers…"

The class reaction was mixed. Some people were marvelling that Alfred knew what words like 'ardent' and 'encumbers' meant. Others were watching with something like fascinated horror as the American boy's voice gurgled and bubbled. It was almost as if he was trying very hard not to try.

"Love, nightmare-like, lies heavy on my chest…"

A single tear slid down Alfred's cheek. It seemed unlikely that such a thing would happen in real life, but the glistening trail marking the teenager's skin proved otherwise.

"And weaves itself into my midnight slumbers!"

With that, Alfred started sobbing. For a few seconds, every other person in the room simply stared at him. Then Kiku stood up calmly, put a small hand on Alfred's shoulder, and stated,

"The heat is affecting him. May I take him to the nurse's office to recover, Mr Graham?"

The teacher nodded - finally, something to add to the staff room gossip! – and Alfred was lead, still blubbering, out of the room.

There was a long moment of silence.

"What are you all staring at?" Mr Graham snapped, "Sandra, I can see the phone under your desk! Mr Wilkins, stop gazing out of the window like a dumb animal and read your poem."

In an otherwise deserted corridor, Kiku gently guided a snivelling Alfred towards the nurse's office. Occasionally, the American boy would babble something in a distressed but entirely nonsensical manner

Kiku wondered (for the seven hundred and eighty ninth time since the school year had begun) whether every single person he knew was utterly insane.

The evidence was mounting.

"Matthew Williams?"

Matthew glanced up from the blood circulation diagram he was drawing in his biology exercise book. There was a woman he recognised as one of the school receptionists standing in the doorway of the classroom, staring straight at him.

"Yes," he said quickly, straightening up, "Um, that's me."

"Your brother's in the nurse's office. He asked for you."

Matthew looked at his biology teacher, who nodded without looking away from his computer screen, then hastily shoved his book and pencil case into his rucksack. In the seat beside him, Arthur had been staring fixedly at the same word in his text book since Alfred had been mentioned.

Matthew ignored him.

If he's so concerned about Alfred's wellbeing, he should bloody tell him how he feels.

The nurse passed him as he entered her office, muttering about teenage hormones and pulling a packet of cigarettes out of her pocket. Matthew wrinkled his nose, turning to watch her disappear down the corridor.

Why do people smoke? It's such a filthy, disgusting habit. Not to mention all the health conditions that are related to it. And the awful smell…

(At this point, dear reader, we must think back to this particular Canadian's boyfriend, and shake our heads.)

Alfred was lying on the small daybed that smelt strongly of vomit, his face buried in the pillow. He was too tall for the mattress, meaning that his feet stuck out over the edge in a way that would have been comical if he hadn't been sobbing so very loudly.

Kiku was sitting on a chair next to the bed, looking intensely uncomfortable. When he caught sight of Matthew he stood up, gave him what was possibly the fastest bow in the history of ever, and hurried out of the door.

Matthew wished that he could follow him.

Instead, he sat down awkwardly on the chair Kiku had just vacated, and placed what he hoped was a comforting hand on his brother's back.

"It's okay," he said gently, "Don't cry, Al."

Alfred's head jerked up. He glared at Matthew through watery blue eyes rimmed wih red.

"I'm not crying," he denied.

Evidence for Alfred crying: The tears running down his cheeks, the wailing gulps that tore through his body every few seconds, his pale, blotchy skin and the fact that the pillow was very definitely damp.

Evidence for Alfred not crying: His previous statement.

A defense like that would never hold up in court.

"Uh, okay," Matthew replied as Alfred's head returned to the cushion. He sat there in silence for a moment, wondering what on earth he should do.

I could kick him out of bed, pull him up by his shirt and demand that he stop being such a fucking pussy and get over himself.

We must conclude that Gilbert's influence was having a strange effect on the usually calm Canadian.

No, he decided, returning to his (somewhat dubious) senses, That would be far too harsh. I'll just try to cheer him up.

With that thought in mind, Matthew said chirpily, "Buck up, Al. I heard there's a new MacDonalds opening west of the shopping mall. We could go and check it out after school if you-"

"I LOVE HIM. I LOVE HIM SOOO MUCH…"

Well, that failed like a nun trying to pole dance.

"I know, Al. I know…"

Matthew thought of Arthur's head, and of the anguish that the British boy was putting his brother through, and of his hockey stick.

No. Remember what happened last time…

"He doesn't love me."

The words were muffled by the pillow, but still miserable enough that Matthew felt another heart-wrenching pang of sympathy for his usuallly cheerful brother.

"You just need to give him time."

Alfred rolled over, clutching at his hair like a man posessed.

"I've given him time!" he yelled, his voice far too loud for the small, claustrophobic room, "You know how long I've loved him, Mattie? Three years! Three fucking years!"

Matthew did know. Alfred had many positive qualities, but being able to keep a secret was not one of them.

"That French mother-fucker doesn't love him!"

Oh, he's not finished. Pity.

"No one could love him like I do. That bastard just wants to get at his ass! And it's such a nice ass…"

Matthew was torn between agreeing that Francis was indeed the devil incarnate, perhaps suggesting that they concocted a plan involving the french boy, the school flagpole and a heavy helping of permanent marker, and defending him.

He was their cousin, after all.

"And now- now I can't even talk to him…"

He's still not done?

"…because every time I do, it makes me love him even more! And- and I can't have him. So I've lost my best friend, too."

Maybe sticking up for Francis wouldn't be such a clever idea. He has been kind of a douche about this.

Alfred descended into those cracked sobs again, and Matthew cautiously began stroking his thick hair.

"I know. I know. Stop crying, Al."

The words didn't seem to register with the sniffling American.

"We're in the middle of school."

Still no discernable effect.

"I think you could get the office to let you go home, if you want. Come on, Al."

Nada. Nothing. Zilch.

"Imagine what all those people who watch you playing football will think if they see you like this."

Alfred sat up so quickly that Matthew was sure his head must have spun.

"You're right!" he shouted, and Matthew winced, "I can't disappoint their fans! Their hero must not let them down!"

He pushed himself off the bed, rubbing at his swollen eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Matthew surreptitiously took a tissue out of his pocket and pressed it into his brother's hand. Alfred didn't thank him, but honestly, Mattie would have been more surprised if he had.

Arthur Kirkland had a lot to answer for.

"Gilbert?"

Matthew was lurking in the toilets, too obedient to consider pulling out his phone anywhere else in school. The experience with Alfred had left him completely drained. He wanted to talk to his boyfriend, arrange some gentle, easy, self-esteem-refuelling get-together tonight, and try his best to forget about that events of the past hour.

But apparently, Gilbert had other ideas. Matthew's call had gone straight onto the answering machine, which meant that the albino had turned his phone off. This was intensely unusual; Gilbert never, ever missed a call, and he wasn't at all averse to answering in the middle of a lesson.

"Gilbert, uh, I was thinking we could meet up after school."

Matthew had never been very good at leaving messages. One especially memorable incident when he was fourteen involved him trying to ask one of their neighbour's for their casserole dish (which the neighbour had borrowed) back, via an answering machine, and getting so flustered that he ended up telling the woman that she could not only keep the dish, but that he would buy her a nicer one, too, and he'd bake her a cake to make up for the inconvenience caused.

They never got that casserole dish. It had been a family heirloom, too.

So it's understandable that Matthew wanted to keep this message as clear and concise as possible.

"Um, just call me when you get this."

Or avoid the whole messy process altogether.

Matthew slipped the phone back into his pocket, fixed his hair in the mirror, and took a long, meditatory breath.

He liked Gilbert, he really did. He liked his crazy enthusiasm, and his bone-crushing hugs, and the way he always tasted vaguely of peppermint. He liked his terrible car, and his eye-wateringly bad jokes, and his hissing laugh.

But when he witnessed Alfred's devotion to Arthur, he couldn't help but wonder if there was something missing.

Gilbert was just so unpredictable. At 5:00pm, they could be locked in an intense kissing session. By 5:05, the albino would be screeching at him as they battled on one of his numerous video games, acting exactly as if they were brothers.

There was no continuity, no stability. It was exciting, but also made Matthew feel somewhat insecure.

I never know what's going on. It's like I'm constantly one step behind. And he has such a hectic life. When we're not together, he could be doing anything.

Matthew stared at his reflection for a moment.

I'm just being stupid, he told himself as he washed his hands and splashed water on his face, I trust Gilbert. I trust him. I really do.

He wiped his hands, patted his face dry, and glanced in the mirror once more.

He wished that his eyes weren't shining with that edge of desperation.

"I've been such an idiot," the giant cigarette said, "How could I have acted so stupidly?"

"I don't know," Gilbert murmured.

His mouth was dry, aching for a breath of sweet, heady smoke.

"Gil? Gilbert? Are you listening, amigo?"

The albino boy blinked, and the anthropomorphic cigarette warped into Antonio. The Spanish boy said something else, but Gilbert was too focused on the fag resting between his fingers to notice.

"I thought you stopped smoking?"

Antonio blinked, and shrugged, and took a long drag of the cigarette.

"I did. But in this moment of despair, I cannot deny myself simple pleasures, no?"

Gilbert licked his lips. That did make an awful lot of sense. The packet sitting on Antonio's couch was almost full, and he'd probably be willing to give him one. If not, he could go down to the shop at the end of the Spanish boy's road. Oh, but it was a school day, so he'd be knee-deep in shit if anyone recgonised him. Especially considering his attendance record…

Why am I even here?

"Because you said you'd help me win back my little Lovino!"

Shit. Didn't realise I'd said that out loud.

Gilbert coughed hastily, and tried not to look at the shining end of the cigarette.

"Er, right. So how did you fuck up?"

Antonio shook his head forlornly.

"It was Lovino's birthday a few weeks ago, so I bought him this." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box, which he opened to reveal a gold pendant, maybe two and a half centimetres long, with tiny roses entwined around a cross.

"Real gold?"

"Si." Antonio stared at it for a moment, then carefully closed the lid and put it back into his jacket.

"What's the problem, then? He didn't like it?"

"No…" Toni sighed heavily, "I didn't get to give it to him."

Gilbert rubbed at his left eye, "Get the fuck on with it."

"I got to Lovino's house, but Feli opened the door. So I said hello and wished him a happy birthday, and gave him the present I bought him-"

"What was it?"

"A little hat. It was so cute…Anyway, he liked it a lot, and he put it on, but then Lovino saw, and he thought- oh, he thought that I had forgotten that it was his birthday, and that I liked Feli better, and I was only using Lovi to get to him!"

Gilbert scratched at his wrist idly, turning the story over in his head.

"So Lovino got the wrong idea because he's a prissy bitch with anger management issues?"

"No!" Antonio's eyes were wide and shocked, "He's my sweet darling Lovi! I mislead him and made him sad…"

"You didn't do anything, Tone. He's just being a fuckwad. If anything, he should apologise to you. And me, for wasting my fucking time."

"You don't understand! He's sensitive…"

Gilbert thought of Lovino.

He's about as sensitive as a cement block.

He sighed, more for dramatic effect than anything else.

"Okay, I'll help you. But not for free."

Antonio smiled at him.

"What do you want in return, amigo?"

Gilbert's eyes focused on the packet of cigarettes.

"I have a few ideas…"

Mr Graham is no-one. I guess that makes him an OC, but I don't think he's really got a big enough part to even be classed as a character. He's more of a walking plot device. Anyway, please review! Even constructive criticism is better than nothing. Thankyou in advance!