This chapter will leave a bittersweet taste in your mouth.

Warning: Angst, some Spamano, fluff, lemon (not telling the pairing, that is a surprise!), verbal abuse, rape, and violent use of weapons.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

What Can't Be Forgotten

"Te amo, Lovi."

Plump lips met his, and Lovino brought up his hands to tangle in the unruly brown locks.

"Te amo,"

Soft hands ran up Lovino's sides, caressing, comforting, arousing. He wanted more. So much more…

"Mi amor," The voice was as smooth as silk, as tempting as cool water in a sweltering desert. Lovino's body heated as he was laid down and the man he loved bent over him, kissing down his face, neck, and chest.

"Mía para siempre…" Toni captured his lips once again, and they kissed softly, but passionately, Lovino pouring everything, every unsaid word, every feeling of love into it as he could. When they parted Lovino became frightened, and latched onto him, pulling him back down so that they lay chest-to-chest. Their heartbeats were as one.

Toni smiled that damn idiotic smile down at him. "What is it, my tomate lindo?"

Lovino scoffed. He didn't tell Toni how much he adored the nickname, no matter how stupid it was. It was his. It was what Toni called him. And Toni loved him so much, he could tell…

Lovino's arms wrapped more tightly around him, and he buried his face in Toni's shoulder, suddenly feeling the urge to cry, suddenly feeling like he would lose everything, but not knowing why. "Don't ever leave me, you bastard."

Toni kept smiling against his neck and kissed him there. Such a sweet, soft kiss… it made Lovino desperate for more.

"Of course I won't leave you, mi dulce." Toni replied. He pushed back to brush some stray hairs from Lovino's face. Those deep green eyes bore into the Italian's, making a new rush of tears gather behind Lovino's eyes. They were both naked, skin against skin, and Lovino had a desperate need to feel every inch of Toni's body against him. "Why would you ever say that?"

Lovino blinked up at him, tears running down his face. But the bastard just kept on smiling. "Don't be fucking brave for me. I don't want you hurt…" He didn't know why he said it; all he knew was that it needed to be said.

"Lovino," Toni replied, staring straight at him, like he could see through him. "I will always be here. No matter what, mi amor. No matter what happens, I will always be with you."

Lovino sobbed, not knowing why he was so sad, pulling Toni into a tight embrace. He just lay there and cried, not feeling in the least bit embarrassed. In Toni's arms, he was safe. In Toni's arms, he was not judged. With Toni, he was in love.

Toni whispered sweet words in Spanish in Lovino's ear; my darling, my sweet, my dear, my love.

And a few little words flashed in Lovino's mind, as if it were echoing, as if it were all around him, inside him…

"I love you, Lovino."

"I love you, my tomate lindo."

A rapid knocking brought Lovino to his senses.

He blinked open his eyes and sat up shakily, wearily, looking around.

Where was he? Had something happened while he had been asleep?

And then it all came back to him. The Uprising. The running. Antonio's death…

The knocking sounded again along with a voice on the other side of the door.

"Hey! Open up, dumbass. West said I should bring you your sleeping bag and unawesomely apologize to you…"

Lovino held in a sob, though his lungs ached to do so and his throat burned to let it free. He willed away tears as he pushed himself to his feet. If anything, he would not lose himself in front of the Prussian bastard again.

He opened the door, and Gilbert was standing there, his form starkly white against the darkness of the hallway. He held up Lovino's sleeping bag, looking meek.

"Here you go," He tossed it at him, and Lovino caught it in his arms. He glared.

Gilbert scratched the back of his head awkwardly, and looked at his shoes. "So, um, ja, I'm sorry or whatever for making you cry and shit…"

Lovino was about to shout that he had not been crying, but he stayed silent, still staring stonily at Gilbert. His eyes were red—Antonio's favorite color. They were red just like the tomatoes he and Lovino would pick together on a hot summer's day. Red just like the sauce they made for dinner on so many nights, just for the two of them. Red, just like the sheets Antonio had laid Lovino down on, had made love to him on…

He didn't realize that he was crying again until Gilbert looked up at him, expression turning to worry, and saying, "Lovino… are you all right? Jeez, I said I was sorry…"

Lovino gave an angry whine as he wiped furiously at his eyes. Every fucking time! Every fucking, goddamn time…

Gilbert was staring at him now. "Lovino?" The Prussian had that same look on his face that Antonio always had when he was worried that Lovino had hurt himself…

"No," Lovino muttered, but not to Gilbert.

Gilbert frowned. "What? Lovino, what are you say—?"

"No!" Lovino shouted, throwing down the sleeping bag and shaking his head. He couldn't stop crying. He just couldn't… "No, get out of my head, you bastard! You're dead! Leave me alone! I can't fucking cry for you anymore!"

Gilbert took a step back, staring warily at him. "L-Lovino, I think you're a bit tired…"

Lovino glared at Gilbert. The man he hated. Well, one of the worst, at least. He hated his over-inflated ego, his constant jibes and jokes, those ruby red eyes that reminded him every bit of his lover and of how he had died… the color of the blood that had run from his broken body…

Before Gilbert could move, Lovino marched up to him, a look of determined rage on his face. Those red eyes widened and…

Lovino kissed him.

Gilbert was so shocked that he nearly bolted when they parted. It was chaste, but it was also… desperate. Not the needy kind of desperate, nor the whorish kind… but a vital desperate, like Lovino wouldn't be sane without him. The amount of feeling passed through the short kiss was startling to Gilbert, but confusion left him as he went in for another.

Lovino accepted grudgingly, mind whirling. He was kissing a man he hated. Crying in front of him, now kissing him…

I just want it to go away. Lovino thought with longing as Gilbert's tongue slipped into his mouth. Lovino willingly accepted it, sucking on it. I want Toni to go away.

Make me forget the hurt.

Lovino was in a type of delirium, but he focused on Gilbert's every touch to bring him back to the situation at hand. Somewhere in the mix, their clothes were discarded… and now they were lying naked, Gilbert on top of him, kissing him, giving him all that he wanted, distracting him, making him forget the void within him.

Slicked fingers prodded at his entrance, and Lovino gladly spread his legs, welcoming them inside. The digits were rough; Lovino bit his lip as they scissored him with haste. Above him, Gilbert panted, looking down at him with a sort of wild abandon in his eyes.

They both needed this.

The fingers were gone, and a cock soon pushed its way inside him. Lovino cried out, fingers digging into Gilbert's fair skin, and the Prussian bent forward, kissing down his face, his neck, his chest…

And then he was moving, in and out, in and out. Lovino indulged in his senses, the feelings flooding him. He let his thoughts of Antonio be chased away by his new-found pleasure.

A hand wrapped around Lovino's shaft, and he gasped out a word that was deaf to his own ears, coming in hot bursts that left him limp and sated.

He let Gilbert fuck him until he too reached his end. The Prussian didn't bother to pull out—his warm seed flooded Lovino's still-pulsing insides, heating him from within.

When it was finished, Gilbert rolled off of him to lie beside him on Lovino's sleeping bag, breaths heavy and sweat glistening on his skin. The Prussian turned to look at him, opened his mouth to say something, but Lovino didn't want to snap back to reality again so soon. He turned his back to Gilbert, slipped inside his sleeping bag, and shut his eyes.

This time, Antonio did not disturb his slumber.

Francis lay on the cold linoleum floor, defeated, defiled, done.

The last man zipped up and smiled down at him. "That was good, pussy boy. We'll give ya a couple of hours."

Francis held in a whimper, biting his lip which had long since split under the pressure of his teeth. He could still taste the men in his mouth, still feel their filthy cum running out of his abused ass…

He felt so violated and defeated that he wanted nothing more than to curl up and cry his eyes out. But he could not let these men see him weak, at least weaker than he already probably looked…

And it hurt. Incredibly so. The physical pain was horribly agonizing, but the mental damage the men had caused was far worse. They made him feel lower than dirt; like a thing to be used at anytime in any way. And it didn't help that he was chained up like a dog.

The men hadn't been gentle. Not in the least. As soon as Harley was finished taking him, another man quickly took his place. He was never given any time to recover, and at some point another man occupied his mouth. Francis had serviced everyone, sometimes twice over, even those opposed to fucking him. His stomach roiled to think of how much cum he had been forced to swallow and how much more had been forced up his ass. He wanted to throw up.

He now lay with his back to the men. He was relieved that he was being ignored… for now. He wanted more than anything to run away, to escape—but it was hard to think clearly with what had just happened.

An hour came and went. Francis had been counting the seconds, and he tensed, waiting for the abuse again. But the men seemed to be drifting off, and before long Francis could hear their soft snores. Not until everyone was asleep did Francis breathe a sigh of relief.

He lay there, in the dark and cold, completely nude and shivering with the onset of the autumn night air. But he forced himself to think; the time for enduring was over… he had to get back to Matthew, (he knew how the Canadian worried). He had to escape, for him…

His hands reached up, fingers cramming beneath the rusty collar, pulling, scrabbling. When it was clear that the collar was not coming off without the key, he tugged lightly on the chain, careful not to make too much noise. He was constantly glancing over his shoulder to confirm that the men were still sleeping across the cafeteria.

As he worked the chain, Francis couldn't help but feel utterly abandoned. Where were his friends? Weren't they coming to get him? Why hadn't they saved him? He felt a great anger toward them, and he promptly began blaming them for the rapes that he had endured. If they had been faster, if they had gotten to him sooner…

He flinched as the chain broke. Just snapped, the rust giving way. But Francis knew that couldn't be all that had broken the metal link. He lifted the chain, examining the break and blinked.

It had been previously worked, whittled away. He cast a grateful look over to the dead woman still lying beside him.

"Merci, madmoiselle." Francis whispered and gathered the chain still attached to the collar in his arms before sneaking slowly out of the cafeteria (but not before pulling on some pants, or rather what as left of them, and slipping on his shoes).

His whole body was tense, his ass aching, as he walked out, and a couple of times he had to catch his chain, keeping it from clattering to the floor. Once he passed the guard at the entrance to the cafeteria, he was as good as free.

And then his chain dropped.

He couldn't catch it.

It hit the floor with a loud clang and the guard stirred, eyes snapping open. Francis opened his mouth in a silent scream, then gathered up his chain, making a mad dash for the front of the school.

He could hear the guard shout, and in a moment, many more footfalls joined his. Francis's heart was pounding as he ran, and he reached the doors. He pushed through them, flying outside, tripping and falling onto his knees. The men were so close behind him… just behind the door…

He tried to get up, but stumbled over the chain. By the time he staggered to his feet, the men were upon him, guns at his temples and hands restrained behind his back

Jamal walked up to him, leering. "Oh, look. Pussy boy tried to escape. Don't mean to break your spirit, but we kinda expected a runaway. You're French, after all." Then he leaned down until they were close enough that Francis could smell his sour breath. "Now, how about you be a good little bitch and come quietly, huh?"

Francis knew he shouldn't do it, avidly screamed at himself in his mind not to, but he was just so angry. He looked Jamal right in the eyes and spit in his face.

Jamal blinked, more out of surprise than shock, and stood, wiping off his face with the back of his hand. He smiled.

"You know what?" Jamal said, his voice suspiciously soft. "I've decided we don't need your ass anymore. You cause too much trouble. And why keep you when we can have our pick of any guy within your group? How about that Asian one, eh? He looked cute—slippery as an eel, though. Or that blond, British one with the big eyebrows. Eh, I don't like them brows, but then again, I like taking any whore whose face is pressed against the floor. That's their place, after all. Better know it well."

Francis's eyes went wide, and he instantly regretted running away. He would do anything, even be a whore to these disgusting men to keep them from doing the same horrible things to the rest of his group. They didn't know about Matthew yet, but, oh God, if they found out…

"No, I'm your whore." Francis said. It was really hard to get out. "You chose me to take, so you have me. I will submit willingly. I have been with many other men before, so I know how to satisfy you. The rest… they do not."

Jamal's smile softened—only for it to disappear instantly. "Tell me, then. What kind of 'submissive whore' would try to run away and then spit in my face? That seems a bit too shady for me to just let go…"

Peter looked up from his place holding a gun to Francis's head. "Are we done here, Jamal?"

Jamal nodded, smile quickly returning, though considerably more sinister this time. "Yeah, I think we are. Dispose of him… we can't afford to have disobedient whores."

Francis yelped as his hair was tugged back. Pete pressed the gun barrel further into Francis's temple.

"Shoot so that he bleeds out slowly." Jamal said with amusement. "And after he's gone, we can all choose our own whores from his little friends."

Francis closed his eyes as the gun cocked. He wanted to do more, but he could not. He knew it was over. He only wished that he could have told Arthur that he loved him. Then again, that would only make the Briton hurt more when he found Francis dead at the hands of his captors.

Matthew, my little one. Don't cry for me. I want you always to be happy…

Peter pulled the trigger.

Translations:

Mía para siempre-Mine forever

Tomate lindo-Cute tomato

Mi dulce-My sweet

The rest are pretty much self-explanatory.

A Word From the Writer: Damn, so much sadness and lemon-y goodness mixed in with this one! I have to say, this is one of my favorite chapters, just because of the stark contrast between the sex and the rape and because I got to write Spamano. I think you deserve a little Spamano after hearing Lovino talking and thinking about it for the longest time. But still, that ending... *sigh* well, it has finally come to this. The next few chapters will be incredibly sad and depressing, but still good drama nonetheless. Drama and death go hand in hand, but that doesn't mean it wasn't hard for me to write. France is one of my favorite characters (aside from Russia and England) because he's a pervert (like me). *Shrugs* Guess my favorites are the ones I pick on the most, so look out, hehe.

Those goddamn cliffhangers! XD