Russia was the first to awaken the next morning. It was difficult to sleep when the sunlight was shining down right onto his face and piercing his closed eyelids. It wasn't the sharp light that came from a cloud-filled sky, but instead the warmth of the unblocked sun. This was the light of new life.

A new day.

He became aware of a second presence, resting atop his seated body, and wrapped his arm around the snoozing China's shoulders. With his other hand, he reached up and gently ran his fingers through the smaller man's hair.

It should have lasted longer. He had longed for decades to twirl those dark tresses around his fingertips and tug them free from their thin elastic bonds, but would that ever be possible again?

He thought back to last night.

It was how he greeted people: a kiss on the lips. It was simple. It was chaste. It showed that he didn't mean harm. Last night was definitely the first time anybody had kissed back. And then…

It escalated. It became deeper. More passionate. More romantic. He hadn't even realised how much he wanted it until it started. Hadn't realised just how much he wanted to be loved. Hadn't realised how much he had wanted to be loved by China specifically. It felt like he had been born again. Like nothing else in the world mattered besides what was happening at that very moment. Nothing except him and China.

It hadn't lasted anywhere near as long as he had wanted. Only a little over a minute at the most. The smaller man had unfortunately realised that his lanterns had run out of fuel and gone out, leaving the two of them in near total darkness. The only light came from the moon and stars outside. China had started to panic. He hugged Russia more tightly than if he was his precious panda and refused to let go until he fell asleep in the larger man's lap.

He looked so adorable. The sunlight reflected off his skin and shone on his ebony hair and made him look as though he was glowing. He couldn't possibly have looked more beautiful if he was an angel who was kicked out of heaven for the sole reason of being too beautiful.

Carefully, Russia picked up the trailing lengths of scarf that fell from his neck and wrapped them around China's slumbering body. He looked so peaceful and lovely that the larger nation couldn't help but lean forward and plant a small kiss on his forehead.

This was this thing his little sister was always talking about, wasn't it? That thing she professed just about every day she was around him?

Yes. It was.

This was… love, wasn't it?

If so, he hoped it would be returned.

"China?" he whispered. "Are you awake?"

Light!

Precious light!

It was the first thing China saw as he cracked his eyes open. The light of the sun was streaming through the window, dancing on his skin and warming his entire body. Or… wait, this was…

"Dobroye utro, China."

His fingers traced upward and until they found a sheath of soft woollen fabric, sitting beneath a chubby cheek and a mat of short hair…

He opened his eyes and looked up, met by glittering purple eyes and a soft, friendly smile.

"Zǎo ān, Russia," he replied. "Are you feeling okay-aru?"

"Much better now that you are awake," said Russia happily.

China giggled, surprised at how childish he sounded and felt.

"You're so adorable," he said, ruffling the taller man's short platinum hair. "To think, there was a time when you only came up to my knee-aru."

"I know," said Russia. "Hard to believe I was ever that small. And… well…"

"Yes?"

Russia gulped nervously.

"Do you remember?" he asked. "The day we met? That question I asked you?"

China thought back, trying to recall.

"You asked to marry me when you grew up-aru," he recalled.

When Russia nodded, he stared in horror.

"Y-you mean you were SERIOUS?!"

"Da, of course!"

But he had been so small! So innocent! And had China known that he really would grow up to be as big and strong and powerful as he possibly could, if not the biggest country in the world, there wouldn't have been any way that he would have agreed!

"B-but-" he stammered. "B-but you were just a child-aru! I did not think you were serious-"

"Why would I not be?"

Damn him and his innocent eyes…

"And why are you so serious, China?"

He felt the fabric which had been draped around his shoulders. It was warm, soft and carried a faint smell of vodka. It summed up the kind of person Russia was.

On the outside, at least. Who knows what was lurking inside.

Strong fingers took his hand and held it close, rubbing and warming his fingers.

"Please don't ignore what happened last night," said Russia. "You suggested the kiss. You returned it, also. Nobody has ever done that before."

"What?" said China. "You mean nobody has ever…"

Russia shook his head.

"I think people are afraid of me," he said sadly. "The only person who wants to come near me anymore is Belarus, and I spend most of time trying to stay away from her as much as possible."

He shuddered at the uncomfortable memories.

"Big Brother… let us become one…"

A soft hand gripped the back of his neck.

"Well then," said China, "somebody's going to have to change that-aru."

Russia smiled as he was pulled down into another kiss.

It was a beautiful evening.

From this high up, there was a magnificent view of the sunset. The sky splashed with gorgeous shades of pink, orange and red, the sun like a golden flower as it dipped below the horizon, the city lights flickering on as Paris changed from daytime into night. It would make any man proud to call this city home.

"Uh, monsieur? I am afraid we are closing soon."

"Oui, I understand."

France slipped his arm back into his trusty crutch and entered the elevator. He had spent hours leaning over the railing, and was tired and wished to return to his home.

To think: he had been worried about the crutch. Worried that it might be impossible to get used to or affect his chances with the ladies. If anything, it made people even more attracted to him than they were before!

And when he took into account just why he needed it in the first place, he couldn't help but appreciate it.

Even though it was amazing to be up so high, he had to admit that it was pleasant to feel his ground beneath his feet once more as he entered the streets. There weren't many people outside at this time of night, not many cars on the roads, no raucous motorbikes or street mimes. It was peaceful and tranquil. If only it could be like this all the time.

There weren't any people who would notice the nation struggling to put as much weight on his left leg as possible. His right leg was fumbling and rather clumsy and he was struggling to manoeuvre it into the correct position. He could move it, but not without extreme difficulty.

This was demonstrated when he accidentally kicked the crutch out from under his arm and he crashed heavily to the ground. The metal support fell off and skittered away, too far for him to reach.

"Merde," he swore.

France tried to stand up, but when he put weight on his right leg it slipped from underneath him and shot pain through his body, emanating from the point where he had been stabbed.

Even when he tried to kneel, the agony was such that he was soon sprawled across the ground again.

He thumped the ground with his fist.

Why was he so helpless?

"Monsieur!"

Gentle hands took his body and lifted it clear of the ground. He found himself surrounded by a small group of concerned-looking young men and women, one of whom passed him his precious crutch. He gratefully slipped it back onto his arm.

"Monsieur, are you alright?" asked one of the women. "Do you need help?"

France couldn't help but smile. His people could be so compassionate.

"Merci, mes amis," he said. "I will not forget your kindness."

England opened his eyes.

It took him a moment to remember where he was. He was lying on a comfortable sofa, his half-naked body covered by a soft, warm blanket. He pulled it up and wrapped it around his shoulders, wishing he wouldn't have to move for the rest of his life.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

He pulled the cushion out from under his head and slapped it over his face.

"Bugger off, America," he groaned.

"Nice to know you're back to your own self," said America, who was leaning on the arm of the sofa, grinning like an idiot. "You sleep alright?"

England rolled over and hugged the cushion, not wanting to face him or let him see his smile.

"I'd be lying if I said that wasn't the best night's sleep I've had in weeks," he confessed.

"Iggy, that's the only night's sleep you've had in weeks," America pointed out.

"Exactly," said England. "That automatically designates it as the best."

"Whatever," said America, and he sat down heavily next to England's legs. "You hungry? Thirsty?"

"I want-"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to bugger off, you stupid Yank. I'm still very tired and I would like to go back to sleep, if you don't mind."

"Oh," said America, smile falling. "Yeah. Sure. I'm not surprised if you're tired, you've been asleep for over a day."

"A DAY?!"

"Enjoy your nap!"

"Wha-" England tried to say. "But- but you- a whole day?!"

Too late. America had disappeared to god knows where. England was left all on his own, lying under…

It was a flag. A flag! Or a stars-and-stripes-patterned blanket, it was still incredibly narcissistic.

And comfortable.

He gathered a handful of the soft fabric, pressed his face into it and took a deep breath in through the nose. It smelled of hamburgers and sugar and workout-related sweat.

It smelled like America.

Wait a minute, what was he doing? This was France grade creepiness! Plain perverted! What was he doing sniffing America's blanket?

He slapped himself on the cheek.

So what if he was happy that America had offered him a chance to stay at his place for a few days? So what if it was the first time England had slept in a little under two months? It wasn't like being near America had anything to do with it!

Was it?

Against his will, his fingers moved to his bare chest. They traced over the letters which still had yet to fade, a permanent reminder of time spent in cold and darkness, with only a man who had once been his brother for company.

He had looked so… vulnerable…

And America NEVER looked vulnerable. All England had wanted to do was to embrace him, comfort him, and tell him everything was going to be alright…

He put the cushion back under his head, trying desperately to empty his overfilling mind.

He hadn't had any nightmares since he'd arrived.

In the time that England had spent in America's place, the younger nation hadn't had a single bad dream. Not even anything relatively unnerving, like flying hamburgers or cheese trying to eat him or him sobbing into the chest of a big-eyebrowed blonde.

He poked his head around the door frame and saw that England had fallen asleep again. One of his hands was under his pillow, clutching it tightly against his head, and the other was resting atop the stars-and-stripes blanket that America had pulled out for him.

The limey jerk looked so adorable.

His face, which had been sullen and tired, lit up like the sun when he saw America waiting for him at the airport. Even so, he had barely said a word throughout the journey to America's house (he told the younger man that he didn't want to impose: a sofa, whatever that was, would be as good as a bedroom) and when they arrived, America had come through from getting them both cans of soda to find that England had stripped down to his pants, climbed onto his couch and fallen asleep.

The scars on his chest and stomach had been on full display.

And he was bound to get cold without any kind of comforter. So America had dug out a blanket he hadn't used in months and made sure England was well covered up.

That had been a little over a day and a half ago.

Walking on tiptoe and making sure to be as noiseless as possible, the taller man approached the occupied couch and sat down, unable to tear his gaze away from the slumbering nation.

England took a deep breath and sighed heavily, rolling over onto his side and clutching his precious cushion as though it were a teddy bear.

He had to look. America had to see them again, just as a reminder of just how badly he had failed. He reached forward and carefully pulled the blanket back, away from Iggy's upper body.

Fifteen sets of letters.

Each one more messy and clumsy and needlessly large than the last.

And he had been forced to watch every single one as it was carved into the smaller man's body.

For the rest of the time in that horrible place, they had mostly been left to their own devices, but both were afraid that the door would open and spell nothing but doom.

America pulled the blanket back over England's body. He didn't want him to get cold.

What if…

He was asleep, wasn't he? So he probably wouldn't notice if America…

…if America leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

Just like that.

The smaller man smelled of tea and biscuits and ever so faintly of rain. That scent that always comes on a rainy day. Must be a weather thing.

His hair was so soft.

America kissed him again. This time, it was on the lips.

There was a cat on his face.

Either that or Japan had contracted a new disease previously unknown to mankind. He could call it Purring Head Syndrome. Only it seemed that it applied to the rest of his body as well: his arms, legs, chest and stomach were all very hot and vibrating.

He didn't like it. It felt too cramped. All he had wanted was a lie down and maybe a quick nap in the Mediterranean sun. He tried to take a deep breath and hold it, which was his usual strategy for calming down if he started to panic, but he got a nose and mouth full of fur and cat smell and almost choked. Any second now he would-

-and he did. He started to hyperventilate, filling his lungs ever more with the stench of cat fur. No matter how much his lungs screamed for air, he was unable to provide it and his panic grew worse and worse with every passing second. Japan had only closed his eyes for a second and now- now- what?

He had come to this place for the wide open spaces, the lack of confinement and the fact that only with these two things would he be able to breathe properly. What was going on? What was happening? He didn't dare move for fear that his limbs would be crushed and his heart would stop and he would be forced to stop breathing-

-and then the heavy mass of fur was removed from his face, and he was able to breathe again.

"Geiá sou, Japan."

Greece sat down on the soft grass and started to affectionately scratch the ears of the cat he had removed from his friend's head.

Japan craned his head forward and saw that his entire body was covered in reclining felines. One by one, they started lazily climbing off his arms and legs and curled up next to the brown-haired nation, purring contentedly.

"Konnichiwa," he said in reply. "Thank you for removing your cat from my face, it was rather unsettling."

Greece smiled.

"Did you fall asleep?" he asked.

"Perhaps," said Japan as he stroked the one remaining cat on his lap. "I only closed my eyes for a moment and they were all over me."

"I noticed," Greece replied. "They seem to like you."

Japan looked him over. It had only been a few seconds since he had sat down, but already there were seven of the furry creatures on his legs, five on his upper body and two on his head. The man was a cat magnet!

"Not as much as they like you," he pointed out.

"What can I say?" asked Greece. "I have a thing for cats."

This was it. This was the kind of casual time wasting Japan had been missing. Lying here with the warm sun on his face, cool grass beneath his body, surrounded by the most adorable creatures in the world…

It was everything he could ever have wanted.

"I swear," Germany snarled, "if you do that one more time-"

"You said that the last fifteen times, arschloch!" Prussia pointed out, and into his phone he said "Want me to do it one more time?"

"¡Sí, sí!" yelled Spain. "A-and hold the phone good and close, I want Romano to hear it this time!"

"Ja, ja, I got it."

After making sure his brother was facing the stove, Prussia reached forward, holding the mobile phone at arm's length, and gently stroked up the length of his largest scar.

"-nnghnGHENnnen-" Germany groaned.

On the other end of the phone line, Spain and Romano burst out laughing.

"¡Dios mío!" cried Spain.

"I don't think I've ever laughed so hard in my whole life!" Romano roared.

"I know, right?!" Prussia cackled. "I swear, if I knew mein kleiner bruder made such hilarious noises when I touched his wounds, I'd have started doing this decades ago!"

"Ja, you should have," said Germany, stirring the boiling pot. "Maybe then you would have had a few scars of your own."

"Lighten up, you potato-sucking bastard!" shouted Romano, loud enough for the blonde to hear him quite clearly over the phone. "Hey Pinkeye, do it one more time, will you?"

"If you do, I cannot be held responsible for my actions," Germany warned.

Prussia chose to ignore these words of caution and reached forward again, finger growing ever closer to his younger brother's back-

"GeheHAH!"

This time was a little different. This time, along with the weird and admittedly hilarious noise which involuntarily pushed its way out of Germany's mouth, his leg flew upwards and hit the albino right in the joy department.

With the speed and grace of a falling building, Prussia keeled over and hit the ground, stiff as a board. His hands flew to his crotch and clutched it tightly as he curled up, the fallen phone next to his head and capturing every second of his agonised squeal.

Spain and Romano could clearly not contain their laughter at all.

Germany picked up the phone.

"Apologies," he said, "but mein bruder is now a little occupied and will be unable to end this conversation." So he ended it for him and turned back to the stove.

"You cannot say that I did not warn you," he stated. "Did I not say that I could not be held responsible for my actions?"

Prussia looked up at him and squeaked.

"In any case," said Germany, "the wurst is done."

"Don't… talk to me… about wurst!" Prussia moaned.

Germany sighed. He turned off the stove and helped his brother to his feet.

"What's that for?" asked Prussia.

"A simple reason," said Germany. "You may be a dummkopf, but you are still my brother and you are the only one I shall ever have."

In an instant, the elder man's pain was suddenly forgotten and he wrapped the tall blonde in as tight an embrace as he could manage.

Germany couldn't help but hug in return.

Spain put the phone down, smiling like the idiot Romano knew he was.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. "You hear the noise he made? I bet you Germany hit him right in the cojones!"

"Ah, screw 'em both," Romano said dismissively. "Stupid potato bastard, corrupting my little brother. As if he wasn't frustrating enough already."

The Spaniard's smile only grew wider.

"Alright, what's wrong?" he asked. "Come on, talk to me."

"No."

"I'm here for you, Romano, talk to me!"

"No, shut up!"

"C'mon, say what's wrong already!"

"Shut up, you damn tomato bastard!"

He froze, stiff as a statue, as the enthusiastic Spain wrapped his arms around him.

"I'm here for you, Romano," he said. "Now tell me what's wrong."

"Only if you get your ass the hell off me."

Spain reluctantly sat down on the sofa next to the incensed Italian.

"Now what's wrong?" he asked.

Romano sighed.

"It's Veneziano," he confessed. "Ever since what happened in that damn dungeon, he's been really… I dunno, weird. He doesn't cry as much, he's pretty much stopped going around naked which is probably because it's harder for him to take his pants off, and he keeps writing letters every couple of weeks to that damn reaper brat! And that's not even the worst part!"

Spain's smile disappeared.

"What's the worst part?" he asked.

"He acts like it's nothing," Romano explained. "I mean… look, he saved my life. You know that, right? He saved me and all the others from that Atlantis bitch, but he pretends like it didn't change anything and I swear he does it deliberately just to rub it in that he was a hero and I wasn't! And the worst part is… is…"

He buried his face in his hand.

"I'll never be able to make it up to him," he stated simply. "He saved my life, Spain. And I'm supposed to be the BIG brother! I'm supposed to be the one looking out for him, but he saved me! How the hell am I gonna top that?!"

He tried to hide his face from the older nation, hoping he wouldn't see the tears beginning to trickle down his cheeks, and felt a sun-warmed hand comfortingly rubbing his back.

"Isn't it obvious?" asked Spain. "You don't!"

Romano rubbed his eyes dry and removed his face from his hands.

"What moron school did you go to again?" he demanded.

Spain chuckled at this remark.

"What I mean," he said, "is that you don't have to try and do stuff better than him. Just show him that you're grateful for what he did for you, okay?"

The younger nation hung his head and mumbled something incoherent.

"Hmm?"

"I said I guess you're right, bastard."

"¡Bueno!" Spain cried happily. "Now, you wanna come help me pick some tomatoes for lunch?"

"Si," Romano replied, "I'll be out in a minute, alright?"

Spain smiled and walked out the door, unknowingly giving Romano exactly what he wanted:

An eyeful of… dat ass.

"So how long should it take? The rehab, I mean."

The doctor sitting behind the desk looked over the reports he had received from the Verona hospital staff, clearly not trying to conceal his frown.

"Even taking into account your… unique physical make-up," he said, "I would estimate a period of around ten months. Perhaps twelve at the very most."

His patient's eyes widened in shock.

"Please try to understand," he continued. "It's a miracle that you can even feel your toes after the injuries you sustained. In any other case I would propose amputation, but-"

"I'm not shocked because of that."

Italy's face split into a smile which was as adorable as it was cocky.

"You say ten or twelve months?" he asked. "Ve~ I'll do it in one!"

The doctor very nearly fell out of his chair at this declaration.

"W-What?" he stammered, and tried and failed to regain his composure. "B-But as I said, even a person of your kind would need a lengthy recovery period after such a traumatic experience, both mentally and physically. That you have survived so long without a psychotic episode is nothing short of a miracle. If you refuse to receive counselling, the least you could do is allow yourself a sensible time frame for rehabilitation…"

He trailed off, staring in shock.

As he watched, Italy lifted his feet clear of the wheelchair and set them on the carpeted floor, making sure that they were spread far enough apart for some semblance of balance.

Then, using the desk for support, he stood up. The wheelchair rolled backwards and bumped uselessly against the wall.

Nothing moved for a moment. The doctor sat there, looking up at Italy, whose eyes were glinting with pride and triumph as he smiled.

"Ve~ Please don't tell me what I can and can't do," he said. "Because seriously, you have no idea about the things I've done in my life. You know how America had his War of Independence? Fratello and I had three. You're welcome. Ve~ so compared to something like that, Doctor, learning to walk again is nothing!"

It was true. Italy had been through so much in his life: he'd experienced hell in the past few months, so who was this guy to say when he'd be able to walk again?

As the doctor was reaching for his pen, the nation's legs failed him and he tumbled to the floor.

"Sir!" cried the doctor in shock. He called for assistance over the intercom.

Italy looked up at the blank ceiling.

Then he started to laugh. It was loud and cheerful and seemed to fill the whole room with an aura of happiness.

"Sir," said the doctor, "are you feeling alright?"

"Si, of course!" cried Italy. "Ve~ I'm sorry, it's just- I'm the stupidest person I know! I'm a complete and total idiot!"

He didn't stop laughing until after he was back in his wheelchair.