PRINCESS

by anivet

England is no longer the man he used to be. He's depressed, hateful, and cold. He begins to distance himself from the entire world, even to the point of hurting others so he himself will be spared of the trauma of love. America has taken up the job of bringing Arthur out of his spiraling depression, but how can he fix the man when he doesn't know how to be the hero he needs?

6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Have you ever wanted to ask a question but you didn't because you knew in your heart that you wouldn't be able to handle the answer?

OoOoOoOoO

Why can't I feel anything from anyone other than you? Matthew thought, his eyes drifting up to meet his lover's. The Cuban was pulling on his pajama pants: a simple pair of black and gray striped sweats that were tied loosely by some pull strings hidden within the waistband.

"Cuba... have you ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn't have?"

Carlos looked up to the blond, his mood instantly falling. He knew where this was headed. They always ended up. Cuba stared for a minute before turning his back to him and asking, "Why do you want to know?" Matthew gripped the sheets tightly between his fingers, wringing them in his sweaty, trembling hands. Cuba stood before him, his back facing him as he waited for Matthew to speak.

"I know I shouldn't care about you... but I do." A small, timid voice choked out. "I fell for you so hard... I couldn't even comprehend it at first."

"Matthew, just get on with it." Cuba gruffed out. He didn't want to hear this, not when he knew the boy was leaving him. Why did he have to talk about it? Why couldn't he just say goodbye and go?

"Carlos... some people will never fit in your life, no matter how much you want them to." He began, voice trembling as he took a shaky breath. "One of the hardest parts of life is deciding whether to walk away or try harder. Maybe I should move on," he thought to himself out loud, looking Carlos in the face, seeming to gain a shred of confidence from his spot on the bed. "Forget about you and how you make me feel, or maybe I should hold on. Who am I kidding? You don't even care at all."

"I DO care-"

"If you CARED, you would have bothered to talk to me. Obviously, you don't." Canada shook his head, frustration obvious in his voice. "I've been waiting for you to change, to do what you say you're going to do, only for you to hurt me and let me down. But I keep coming back. I keep staying and waiting. And I know it's stupid to wait for you, but every time I try to move on, my heart keeps insisting that you're the one. I know I should probably just let go, cause I know that it won't work out and everyone tells me that. So I try to convince myself that I'm better off without you. But then I'll think of you and remember your smile that makes me melt... I can't imagine myself with anyone else, no matter how hard it is. I want to be with you." He broke eye contact, looking away from him quickly, ashamed. "I thought I could handle this, but I really can't. Honestly, I feel really stupid for holding onto things that just keep on hurting me." He looked up sadly, the hurt and betrayal casting dark shadows under his eyes. And in a tiny, almost unheard whisper he choked out, "You became everything you said you wouldn't be."

"... Do you hate me for that?" Carlos asked. "For lying, cheating? For going out and sleeping with other people, HUMANS?" He turned around fully, and glared down at him. But his stare held no bite. "Does that make you hate me?"

"I don't hate you," Matthew's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I'm just disappointed you turned into everything you said you'd never be. And maybe I did get my hopes up too high," he added. "We're countries, we're going to sleep with others, we can't help it, but that's not the problem. You don't have to sleep with humans, and you fuck other countries even when its not REQUIRED!"

"I'm sorry..." His words sounded hollow, empty, like always. It made Matthew grind his teeth together, and he jumped up from the mattress.

"You can say sorry a million times, say I love you as much as you want, say whatever you want, whenever you want. But if you're not going to prove that the things you say are true, then don't say anything at all. Because if you can't show it, your words don't mean a thing!"

"Just because I don't show it doesn't mean I don't feel it." Carlos breathed out. Matthew turned on him quickly, his eyes wet and full of anger and heartbreak.

"Do you have any idea how much the things you say affect me?" The Canadian was pacing furiously around the room now, like a lion in a too small cage who just wanted to rip its own mane out. "Do I need to cry in front of you so you can understand how much you hurt me?" A single, large tear rolled down his left cheek as he spoke those words, his voice cracking horribly. "Even if it hurts, even if you make me cry, I love you, and I can't tell if it's killing me or if it's making me stronger."

"Matthew-"

"You can't treat people like shit and expect them to love you!" He roared. "Can't I be your last fling? For you to promise me you won't love anyone other than me?" He gripped the front of his chest to emphasize his point as he continued. "I just want you to care about me. I'm just tired of your empty promises. Basically, I wished that you loved me! I hate the idea of anyone else having you!"

"Nobody else DOES have me Matthew - I love YOU!"

"Oh, really?" He challenged. "'Cause I'm pretty sure you said that to her, her, and... her." He tossed a tiny pocket book with different pictures of Carlos and other women and men. All blond, and all doing sexual things to him. But one stood out more than others. Sheila. She was in multiple pictures, and was obviously one of his favorites seeing as how the places and outfits varied vastly. It was clear how frequent these rendezvous were, because the human had barely aged between the multiple photographs.

Cuba didn't know what to say to that. He came up with the only true statement he had in his possession at the moment. "To be honest, you're the only one I've ever spent this much time and effort on."

"I have a hopeless crush on someone I stand no chance with!" Matthew laughed bitterly to himself, tossing his head back as he looked to the ceiling, seeming lost. "Too tired to go on, too in love to let go..." He seemed to snap back to reality for a second as he glared at Cuba again.

"I can't stay mad at you," he replied, exhausted, "but words can't describe how much I hate myself." His violet eyes glinted, filled with unshed tears as he tried to hold them together. "I acted like it wasn't a big deal," he admitted, "when really, it was breaking my heart." He shook his head, wavy blond hair bouncing with the movement. "Once you have feelings for someone, they will always be there. You may not like them anymore, but you still care." He admitted. "I don't like you anymore, Cuba. I love you, but I don't LIKE you. And yet," he continued, "I'll always come running back to you, no matter how many times you hurt me, or how many times you make me cry, as soon as you need me, I'll be there." He looked up, his eyes meeting Cuba's, and the larger country could see the other's anguish. And yet... he couldn't hold back, he had to let it out.

"You're leaving me because its easier to walk away than to fight for something that you really love." He stated, staring the Northern nation down, his voice gruff and hurt.

Matthew bristled up, obviously angry at his words. He HAD tried, and Cuba knew this. If anything, HE was the one not trying. Matthew let it go though and nodded, stepping back and away from the other, looking towards the ground.

"Yeah." He admitted. "I am." He darted away and grabbed his bags, clutching them to his chest as he made his way to the door, opening it just enough for him to slip out before Cuba called out to him.

"Matthew, wait!" Carlos begged with sad, desperate eyes. "I love you." Matthew froze, back still to him.

"Show me, don't tell me." He sighed out. "I'm not going to do this to myself anymore. We've done this for too long. I'm not coming back until you can actually do what you say you're going to do."

"But what if I... what if I'm not able to change?"

"Then this is it, isn't it?" He responded curtly. "I mean it Carlos, I'm not coming back." But he tilted his head over his shoulder, giving him one last, hopeful, yet broken smile and spoke his parting words before he let the door close forever, leaving Carlos with it.

The Cuban only had the younger man's last words to give him comfort in the dark, lonely hotel room that seemed to be the very personification of failure and betrayal. The large man let the sentence repeat over and over in his mind, desperate to keep that small comfort with him.

And he didn't know why, but he felt compelled to write the words down. And so he did, scribbling the only line in the world that mattered to him anymore on a scrap piece of paper. And on that piece of parchment were the mangled words Matthew had departed with: But who knows, maybe one day we'll be perfect for each other.

OoOoOoO

Matthew knocked lightly on the door of Alfred and Arthur's hotel room, knowing they were safely tucked in bed thanks to a late night text from his brother three hours ago. He guessed they were probably asleep, but he didn't know where else to turn to, and he KNEW Alfred would let him in with open arms.

After waiting about five minutes, he heard a sleepy grumble and the rustle of a body getting untangled from the sheets. He could faintly make out America grumble out a 'shit' as he stubbed his toe or something, murmuring to himself, obviously half asleep. Matthew could also register that Alfred was telling Arthur to just go back to sleep and that he was going to 'take care of it'.

Not even a minute later, the door was yanked open, locks and all, to reveal an irritated American glaring out at him with sleepy, clouded eyes. His messy golden hair stuck up in strange places as a result of him rolling in the blankets and getting a static charge. Matthew jumped a bit, not expecting the door to be ripped off almost completely and a gruff voice to snarl out, "What?"

"U-Uh...hi, Al." Canada said softly, giving him a shaky smile and feeling a bit guilty for waking him up.

His brother blinked, registering who was before him and broke out in a large smile. "Matty!" He hugged him closely, nuzzling into his brothers neck and taking a deep breath, smelling the winds and trees and land and lakes that his brother was made out of. It was a homely, natural scent. The right one that nobody could copy or duplicate. It was Matthew's and Matthew's alone.

It finally seemed to dawn on Alfred's sleepy mind that there must be something wrong for his brother to be knocking on his door at four thirty in the morning. Alfred pulled back.

"Wait, what are you doin' here, are ya hurt?" He questioned, looking him over at arms length. "Are ya okay? Cuba didn't do nothin' to ya, did he, I'll kill 'em if he did, I swear ta god, Matt-"

"No! No..." He reassured. "Well... it had to DO with Carlos, but he didn't hurt me."

"... Physically."

"Al..." Matthew sighed looking up at him. Alfred had a tight lipped expression on his face, obviously holding in what he wanted to say for Matthew's sake. He let out a shaky breath and walked back into his brothers warm arms and sighed. "I left him." America's silent replies were clear.

Again, his body seemed to say.

"I won't go back to him this time."

You always say that.

"I mean it, Al." He felt the other pull him into his embrace and he allowed it, relaxing.

I just don't want you to get hurt.

"I'm fine, I just..." His words fell short and Alfred pulled back just enough to look down at his brothers face.

Wanna sleep together? He asked silently, rubbing the others back with his large, warm palms.

"Yes, please," he breathed, hugging the other close as he nodded into his golden hair.

Alfred wrapped his arm around the Canadian's shoulder as he turned back towards the door. Matthew walked in and looked back to see Alfred blink at the damage he'd done to the hotel's property.

"Shit." He lifted the door up slightly by its crushed handle, the metal groaning and scraping against itself as he tried to pull the door back into place and back away from it slowly, hands raised as if ready to catch should it fall.

Matthew smiled and shook his head slightly, then made his way to the bed. Arthur was currently resting in the middle, hogging the bed in his fitful rest. Alfred huffed fondly, and slid back into his original spot, watching as his northern brother took the space on the other side of Arthur, both of them crowding him in and keeping him warm and secure between their larger bodies.

Matthew stretched a hand over Arthur's body and reached out for his brother. Alfred accepted it happily, holding hands with the only person in the world he knew he could always believe in. They stared at each other in the dark, having silent conversations that only they could understand just by the feel and look of the other. And they wouldn't have it any other way. Eventually, they fell asleep, the tiniest wisps of dawn licking the side of the hotel and casting a strange peach light in the room through the cracks of the drapes.

OoOoOoO

Arthur woke up with the feeling of being completely surrounded by warmth and limbs. He could register Alfred's tan skin on his own sickly pale flesh, but he didn't know who was behind him, spooning him just like America was known for doing.

He caught the scent of maple and the tiny noise of 'eh' being snored quietly into his ear repeatedly.

Matthew.

He felt a strange, almost warm feeling from having both of his boys sleeping in the same bed with him like when they had been his colonies. When they had needed him. When he was important.

He frowned and the warmth fell into a familiar sticky feeling, slimy and cold. He hated it, but it was all he'd known for so, so long. That feeling of belonging was foreign to him now; he didn't want it. It felt strange and frightening. Dangerous.

He tried to shift his way out but both boys clamped down and clutched him tighter. One murmuring Kuma, and the other Tony. Arthur didn't know how to react to the second one and just tried to put it out of his mind. He didn't want to think about why Alfred was grumbling an alien's name out in his sleep as he cuddled up to him. At least Matthew slept with his pet polar bear... actually, both sounded rather ridiculous. Flying Mint Bunny would surely be a much more sensible idea for anyone to spoon with, he concluded in his mind.

Arthur pushed Matthew's arm off and he just rolled over with a grumble and a huff, annoyed at being disturbed. Once the Canadian's back faced him, he went to work on Alfred, but he wouldn't be deterred anywhere near as easily as his brother had been.

England attempted to pull apart Alfred's arms, wrapped securely around him, and it seemed to be working with no small amount of effort on his part. He was almost free, the arms loosening and falling to his lap as he sat up. Arthur let out a relieved breath and tried to look around. It was the same room he remembered falling asleep in: a plain, simple hotel room with cream walls and plush white carpets and a black mini-fridge under the marble counters. He also noted that the door and some of the wall and plaster around the frame had been ripped off, the handle completely crushed into a crinkled ball. He wasn't sure what had happened there, but he knew for a fact that the building's management wasn't going to be pleased with the American who had ripped their door off its hinges and taken some of the wall with it.

He couldn't dwell on the thought for long anyway, because said American let out a random loud snore and rolled over, arms still attached to Arthur's hips. The Brit let out a panicked yell as he was suddenly pulled and began to curse as he met the floor. There was no room on the bed for him to land, and he collided with the carpet. Both brothers startled awake and looked around in a sleepy panic, clearly alarmed and confused at what was going on, bleary eyes peering out through half-lidded eyes.

"America, you bloody wanker!" He hollered, obviously pissed at the boy for flipping him face-first off the bed.

"What'd I do?!" He questioned, completely confused as to what he did wrong. He was sleeping, after all.

"You flipped me off the bed, arse!"

"You're trippin', old man," he yawned, not interested or concerned in the slightest. If Arthur was yelling at him, he must be fine. Besides, that meant he was actually RESPONDING to something. Progress. Alfred smiled inwardly to himself, pleased with his conclusion.

Matthew had clambered off the mattress to help pull the Englishman off of the floor, but Arthur yanked his hand away rudely, giving the boy a nasty sneer. He brushed himself off as if he were dusty and stomped away to the minibar and fridge, flinging the door open and not caring if it hit the wall and rattled the glasses inside it dangerously. He pulled out the nearest bottle of scotch and rummaged around for a bottle opener. Once he did find one, Matthew swiftly pulled it out from his fingers with a fluid movement, and placed it on a very high shelf that Arthur would have to use a stool or similar implement to reach on his own.

"Arthur, you can't just go drinking like that this early in the morning," Matthew chastised. "You taught me that."

"I don't care what you have to say, Canada, if I want a bloody drink, I'll have one." His voice was venomous as he glared daggers up at his former colony. "So I suggest giving me that cork opener at once unless you want me to hide your arse like I used to, since we're talking about the past." Matthew looked uncomfortable, his resolve faltering slightly, and he stepped back. He shook his head though. Arthur was NOT getting that bottled opened if he could help it. The Brit snarled and used Matthew's slight hesitation to his advantage and quickly added, "And it's ENGLAND to you, tosser."

Canada took in a shaky breath of air and looked down. Arthur was vicious at times, knowing just what to say to make people hiss and recoil in pain. He wouldn't back down about the scotch, but he would give the man space. Matthew took a seat on the edge of the bed, and Alfred scowled at the Brit.

Arthur caught his angry stare but he just gave a dismissive noise towards him and went back to attempting to open the bottle with his bare hands. The fact that Arthur was ignoring him angered him further and he threw the blankets off of himself, revealing his strong legs and Batman boxers. Matthew jumped, looking back with clearly hurt eyes, shoulders slumped and low from Arthur's blow.

This made Alfred grit his teeth harder and advance towards the blond pulling at the cork with his teeth. Just as Alfred reached him he tried to pluck it out with a fork in the hard, spongy cap only to have the American rip it out of his hold.

"Hey!" Arthur yelled indignantly, "Give that back!" Alfred glared down to him, obviously in a sour mood with him, and snapped the silverware in two before dropping the remains at the other's feet.

"You're not drinking anymore, Arthur. As of right now, you are going through prohibition."

"And who exactly is going to make me," he challenged. "You? We all saw how well that worked out when you tried it on yourself didn't we, Canada?" Matthew looked up at the mention of his name, violet eyes flickering up to the scene before him. Alfred remained silent and stone faced as he silently gripped the bottle in Arthur's hands as well. "Oh, no you don't." England hissed, clutching it tighter to himself. Alfred was holding the neck of the glass with no effort and was pulling it towards his own chest. The room filled with the sound of cracking as he gripped it tighter in warning and Arthur, fearing it would shatter and spill all of its contents on the floor, let it go.

Alfred didn't seem satisfied with only having it in his hands and pinched the cork at the lip of the glass and pulled it out with a loud pop. Arthur scowled at him, unamused, but it was quickly replaced with an expression of horror as Alfred held the bottle over the sink and poured its contents out and down into the drain.

"What?! NO!" Arthur gasped, trying to go for the scotch again, but Alfred held him back with one hand held in front of him. "Stop wasting it!" He yelled, clearly getting more panicked as the bottled rapidly drained. "Idiot, STOP!" He held out one last, pleading hand in its direction, trying to reach out for it even though it was too late. The last drops were emptied out of its container and Arthur stumbled back weakly, looking at the cracked surface of the empty Scotch glass as Alfred handed it back to him, placing it in his shaking hands but not letting go of it. Arthur met his hard gaze staring down at him, face stern as he spoke.

"It's for your own good, Arthur." The happy, joking tone of voice gone and replaced with a more mature, irritated one. "How am I supposed to help you if you keep drowning yourself in your sorrows?" The question didn't want Arthur's answer or retort because it would only annoy him more, and Alfred just wasn't in the mood. "I don't care if you hate me for that, but you will NOT disrespect Matthew again, do you hear me? He's only here to help and if you treat him badly I'll..." Alfred wasn't sure what he'd do. What COULD he do? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He couldn't hit him, he couldn't take anything away Arthur hadn't thrown away himself. He also couldn't use sex as a threat, as Arthur wasn't interested and he wouldn't sleep with him unless the Brit let him do it his way, so what, really, could he do?

"You can't do anything, 'Jones'." Arthur spat, the name tasting foul on his tongue. He was going to call his bluff - if the American wanted to remain the 'hero', he had no options left for him to use. "You're just as fucked as I am in this situation. You have to look after a suicidal nation and I have to be stuck with your worthless ass." He laughed bitterly. "We're both being punished, if you ask me."

Alfred ground his teeth silently, unsure of what to say. "You can order me around all you want, but you can't do shite to me, I'll just continue to do what I want and you'll frantically try to keep up this ridiculous facade of being a hero." The American was obviously lost for words and that made him just glare harder, his brows creasing angrily. Arthur leaned in closer, dropping the bottled to the ground with a dull thud as he whispered, "You're not a hero, America. You're just a scared little kid whose nothing more than a failure. You failed to bring up your economy, to stop those planes, to fight poverty, terrorism, you FAILED." His lips brushed the others ear and he dealt the final blow.

"If anything, you're a villain."

Alfred was frozen for a second, face still stern, but as he slowly stood up and met the other's victorious eyes he felt overwhelming frustration, and all he could say in response was, "Don't fuck with Matty like that again." Then he walked away calmly.

'He doesn't know what he's saying,' Alfred thought to himself, distressed by the Brit's words. He tried, he really did, but he did fail. As soon as he fixed one problem, there would be five more waiting. One step forward, two steps back. 'But think, all those one steps do add up, right? Sure I get knocked back, but I am farther than I used to be, I'm the fucking world superpower! Failure my ass, I'm a hero!... Right?'

"Die a hero or live long enough to become the villain, eh, America?" Arthur called over, smirking at the other's inner turmoil. "And you've lived a pretty long life."

"Arthur!" Matthew cried out, trying to come to his brother's rescue. "Stop it! All this over a little alcohol. Grow up! He's only looking out for you, so quit being such a hosser (hoser?)!"

"You're talkative today," Arthur noted, wondering how he should go about shaming the Canadian, but a hand landed on his shoulder. He glanced up at Alfred, confused about how he had got there so fast. He hadn't even seen him move, but sure enough, there he was, squeezing his fist slightly harder.

"Don't." He warned, blue eyes piercing the emerald green below him. "I can handle you talking shit about me, but god be damned if I let you talk shit about my brother. Or yourself," he added.

"Al... maybe we should all just get out of the house?" Matthew suggested, clearly growing more and more uncomfortable in this place. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to stick around last night; he felt as if he had ruined any progress Alfred had achieved with Arthur.

"Yeah... yeah, that sounds like a great idea, Matt." Alfred let a fake smile coat his lips as he looked up to his twin. "What about you Arthur, do you wanna get out of here? It'll give the staff some time to fix this place up."

Arthur stared up at him, puzzled. Did he want to go outside? Well, he certainly didn't want to stay in this room any longer. His mind drifted to the woman he had met just the previous night when he had roamed the world outside, and he felt slightly ashamed. Why, he didn't know. The human had given him very good advice, but he wasn't sure if he could follow it. He knew something was wrong with him. He wanted to get better, for this all to be some twisted, messed up dream and for him to wake up and still be friends with Kiku and to go out drinking with Francis, and to talk with his fairy friends, but he knew that wouldn't happen. This was real, it was HIS reality, HE made it this way, he had no one else to blame but himself. But how was he going to fix a problem when he didn't even know how it started?

Let him in, she'd said. Let him help you. But why Alfred? Because he was the only one who cared for him anymore, despite how fucked up that was. He didn't know why he stuck around, but he suspected it had something to do with his 'hero complex'.

With a heavy sigh and a hesitant flicker of his eyes as he searched the American's face, he nodded. "That sounds... refreshing, actually."

Alfred smiled a real smile, although guarded and a little surprised. He looked over at Matthew and snatched his hand from Arthur's shoulder and pulled the less enthusiastic nations behind him as he rattled off multiple places to visit. Arthur and Matthew could only give each other worried glances as they were dragged all the way to the front desk, as Alfred explained they were going to need a new door for their room much to the confusion of the human at the table before Alfred dashed away hailing a cab, leading his twin and former brother to the yellow and black car.

OoOoOoO

Ludwig gripped the back of the couch with such force he could hear the groaning of the wood, threatening to give under his constricting, vice-like hold. Felicano swallowed loudly, shivering a bit in nervous anticipation and fear. His head was bent downwards, just slightly. He was trying to appear as brave as he could be but Ludwig, and the very FEEL of him behind his back, made him want to curl further into himself and shrivel into non-existence.

"V-Vhy are you doing zis?" Germany's voice cracked. He growled deeply, annoyed at the show of weakness in such a time as this and cleared his throat loudly, making the Italian cringe below him. He could see his shoulders shake with anxiety and caution. Fear.

It made the German grind his teeth together and his brow to scrunch together heavily over his closed eyes. He didn't want to be feared, not by this man, but he knew the Italian's fear had a right to be there. Ludwig had helped him dig that trench and pushed Italy in it. Now, after they had hit rock bottom in their relationship, he was cruel enough to toss a shovel in there for him to dig deeper, and further away.

He knew he should just leave, let it be, go, to stop this nonsense while he still could - but he couldn't. He just... he couldn't. He loved this man, he had ALWAYS loved this man. The one he grew up with, forgot about when he was re-birthed as Germany, fought against and beside, the one who helped him remember, who helped him grow and care and love others. The one who trusted him when no one else did, who cared when others feared him, who stood beside him even when he betrayed and hurt him, who always crawled back. Who wanted to go, leave, stop the dangerous obsession he was gaining. The one who told him no, to stop, to let him be, the one who ran away and hurt him the most, the one he won't let go. No matter what.

"Look at me." The smaller nation only trembled more. "Italy." He pressed. "Look."

The brunette shook his head viciously, side to side, scrunching his eyes shut until he could see the colors swirl from behind his lids.

"Why not?"

The response was silence.

"Is it because of vhat happened last time? If so, I'm sorry." He wasn't. Why should he be? They were meant to be. Germany and Italy, Italy and Germany. Made for each other, built for each other. If he had to lock him in a room for two weeks for him to see that, then so be it. He would do what ever it took for him to understand. He only wanted him to be safe. And the only way for Italy to remain that way was to love him, to let Germany protect him. He couldn't if he kept pushing him away.

Italy did not reply. The only sign that he had indeed heard what Ludwig had said was that he'd flinched when he'd mentioned the past.

"Feliciano," Germany whispered, bending lower to hiss into his ear, "talk to me, please don't push me away again. I don't enjoy locking you up but I will if I have to." Italy's violent shaking was causing him to clench and un-clench his fists, twisting the couches covering material in his hand. Germany couldn't resist liking his lips, imagining liking the others' soft, trembling body, pushing those thin, yet fit legs open and spreading him wide for himself to lavish and love. Germany's hot breath coursed over his skin as he breathed into the shell of the others ear and whispered darkly, "Ich liebe dich."

A sob-like hiccup fell from the Italians lips and he choked out, "No, please don't."

"Nein?" Ludwig questioned. "Vhy?"

"Don't." It was all Italy could think. "Just please, DON'T. I can't... I can't take it anymore." He tried to stand up but Germany pushed him back down by his shoulders roughly, squeezing the trembling man harshly. "Please!" Feliciano's voice became more panicked, he just wanted to go, he knew it was a bad idea to meet up with this man for a friendly, business lunch. Oh god, why did he do it? "No more, don't hurt me anymore, please, Ludwig, don't."

"Hurt you?" The words came out of Germany's mouth, feeling foreign and revolting. He felt like spitting to rid himself of the very TASTE of those words from forming in his mouth. "I vould NEVER hurt you!" He replied, sounding completely shocked. Yeah, and locking him up in rooms and having your way with him is not hurting him, right? Didn't you say the same when Hitler was in power? ' I'm HELPING?'

'Shut up,' he hissed to his conscience. 'That was different. He was supposed to change our country, to help us with our problems.'

And look at how well THAT turned out, right. He made not only you a disgrace, but your people murderers. He said he was helping too right, just like you're doing now?

'It was DIFFERRENT!'

HOW, exactly, is locking someone up and harassing them any different than this? You are REPEATING the past. STOP.

'No.'

YES

'I can't.'

You can.

"I WON'T."

Feliciano sobbed louder this time, clearly freaking out. The grip on his shoulder was making his bones grind together and the flesh bruise. The hands were pushing him deeper into the couch from behind, further into the abyss Ludwig had dragged them into. "You're hurting me NOW!"

"HOW?" Hurting him? How was he hurting him? He was showing him how much he cared, he wasn't hurting him. You're crushing him into the sofa, he told himself. Sure you aren't.

"I'm NOT."

You are.

"Yes you ARE!" Italy wailed as Ludwig dug his blunt nails into his pale skin.

"NO, I'm NOT!" Ludwig roared releasing him suddenly before slamming his fists down onto the back of the couch again, making the whole thing tip backwards dangerously for a moment before thumping to the floor again.

Feliciano pulled his legs up to his chest and felt himself begin to hyperventilate. Germany was losing it again. It happened from time to time, and it was terrifying. Momentary lapses here and there where he would snap mentally, lose himself in his desire, forget about the rules and even his own conscience. When he would do whatever he wanted, let himself go and succumb to his wants and desires, to have FUN and do dangerous things that he normally wouldn't let himself pull off.

'Almost like Jekyl and Hyde,' Italy thought ruefully to himself. And every time he came to again he was so, so guilty. But lately, he slipped in more often and for longer periods of times. The last time he had seen him, he was in this same state of mental relapse for an entire week. The German had locked him into a room and did whatever he felt was 'justified' to get his love for the Italian across. He had forgave him. When Ludwig snapped out of it he just left, he didn't hit him, yell at him, nothing. He was a coward. He loved him. And he wished he didn't. Because people who love you… don't do things like this to you. They don't kidnap and beat you. They don't rape you.

But, like a sickness, Ludwig had infected Italy with it, broken down his immune system and whittled away at his will and strength until he was dependent on the other, whether he liked it or not. Ludwig didn't see it that way; no, what he saw was love. He was in love and Italy was too stupid, too blind to see it and accept it. So Ludwig had to SHOW him he needed him, and if he had to beat him, just to show that others would hurt him more, to keep running back, he would. And Italy did. Why? He didn't know.

He had told the German that they couldn't be together anymore. It hurt too much, to watch the other do their duty as nations to betray each other and sleep with other people, only to go to bed with the scent of another on their skin. The guilt, the regret. He couldn't stand the look on the other's face, the feeling HE got when Germany would kiss him with the taste of another on his lips. Not because they WANTED to, but because it was NECESSARY. And he wasn't sure if that was better or worse. Because, as sure as people died, they would need to do it again. And again and again and again.

And even though Germany begged, pleaded for him to stay - that they could fix it - he was a coward who did the only thing he knew how. Ran away. Ludwig, who was willing to throw away the rules he loved and adored so much, willing to throw them away for HIM and Italy pushed him away. Broke him. Built him up only to tear him down. Rip him apart until he was a shell, a monster of what he used to be. So Italy took the blame. It was his fault. And he would deal with it. He would remain by him, even if it killed him, but he was still afraid. Afraid of the other. What he could do. What he WOULD do. And Italy the fearful, the foolish, was brave even, STUPID enough to return every time. Trying to fix his mistakes, to help his friend, the man he loved but could never be with, only to run away again. Push him away. It was a vicious cycle, one that neither would quit. Not that they could; both were so entwined with the other they could never just... LET GO. It was impossible. But that didn't mean they liked it.

Italy turned slowly, cautiously, golden eyes looking up to the conflicted blues above him, gazing down at him with an intense stare. "You're the first one who broke my heart. For the rest of my life, you will always be the one who hurt me the most. Don't forget that."

Germany blinked down at him. "I broke YOUR heart?" He questioned dumbly. "I broke YOUR HEART?!" With a swift, rush of angry power, he yanked the back of the couch downwards, causing the piece of furniture to turn over and crash to the floor with the Italian still on it. He tumbled off and rolled to the steel-tipped boots of the German glowering hatefully down upon him. "I didn't turn you avay, I didn't push you out of my life, I didn't reject your love und call it a DISEASE!"

"Germany-"

"NEIN!" He yelled, frustration and panic seeping into his pores. "Vhat HAPPENED to 'vee, Ludwig, Ludwig, come und save me'?! Vhat on earth happened to ZAT man, ze man who looked up to me und ADORED me?! Who LOVED ME?" Ludwig could feel himself choke up. No, no, choking up was bad, he couldn't do that. He needed to be strong, to prove to Italy he was still strong, not damaged. How was he supposed to help him if Italy thought he was just another VICTIM?

"He... he's dead, Germany." Feliciano whispered. "He died a long time ago. After the war. He's BEEN gone. Why can't you just SEE it?!" Italy yelled. "Why can't you just LET IT GO! I don't LOVE you like that anymore! I care about you, I always will, but I do NOT. LOVE YOU!"

Silence filled the room. Even Italy's heaving chest let out a quiet air.

"Who killed him?" The question was short, simple, but oh so complicated. So much meaning in that question, that short, tiny, worthless question. It made Italy want to cry.

"You did." He whispered. "I did. The WORLD did." Ludwig stumbled back and collided with a tiny side table that was flush against the wall, a vase full of beautiful flowers wilting, dying. Germany tried to catch himself, his palm flying out and hitting the side of the table so fast it flipped the table over completely and glass shattered, water spilled, flowers cut, and petals ripped off, HOPELESS.

It was all hopeless.

He knew it, Germany knew it, they all knew it. Every nation in the world knew it, but they pushed on anyway. And Germany, poor, poor, Germany, was slumping against the wall, and once again, lost hope.

Italy stood on shaky legs and made his way to the door, refusing to look behind him. He couldn't. Because if he did, he would be pulled back, he would lose it, his will, his strength, and whither away like those flowers to a disease he wish he never caught.

LOVE.

And just as he turned the knob, a small voice called out, "What did him in? What was the last straw?"

A foul taste climbed up his throat as he fought down the bile rising into his mouth.

"America."

The door slamming was the only noise left in the room as Italy fled, running away once again, and abandoning hope.

((Wow. Just...FUCKING WOW. This sucked, I couldn't write a it all, it wasn't coming out, I don't like it, but this is all I could get out. I want you guys to do something for me. To pick where I am going to have America, Canada, and England go for their day out. I want some place that hasn't been overused in other stories. So no movies, zoo's, picnic's, ect. Something you haven't seen other writers use as get aways and days out before. I want to do something new and 'original'.

Sigh, now on the note of Germany. He is kind of Yandere in here. It's important for the story and America's involvement in here is a big reason why Italy and Germany spilt. When they did, Germany fell apart and see's the man Italy is now is completely different than the man he used to be, the one that loved him so he treats and talks about them as completely different people for the most part.

Soon, why I am going deeper into other pairing will be revealed and you'll understand why. Also, let me hear other pairings you would like to see in here. I may not pick them but it doesn't men its because I don't LIKE that pairing, it just might not fit in this story.

Thank you for waiting so long. Summer is almost here and I have been extremely busy with school, writers block, laziness and other awful things that I let get in the way of my productivity...sorry. But like I said. SUMMER IS ALMOST HERE, and new chapters are as well! Hoorah! XD))