WARNING. Epic mindfuck ahead.

Warning: Threats, angst, some arguments, mention of Spamano, RusAme, and Prumano.

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

If We Could Go Back

Ivan was surprised to admit it, but he felt cold without Alfred lying beside him. He glanced almost jealously at where he was laying on the couch with Matthew for what must have been the millionth time that night. The truth was, Ivan was scared. He rarely ever got scared.

But he was scared for Alfred.

Scared that when the time came, Ivan would be unable save him from the ever-snatching claws of Death.

He suddenly realized that they needed more time. And since he could not guarantee that, he settled for more time spent together. He was determined to know Alfred before they died. But they were running out of time.

As always, Gilbert couldn't stand the silence. But it was more out of anxiety than boredom. He sat up in his sleeping bag, and he could feel all of their gazes upon him.

"All right. All this quiet is… unawesome."

"Don't talk, then, dammit." Lovino growled, though his voice was raspy and defeated.

"No one else is." Gilbert said, barely able to look at the Italian. "You're all in a grieving stupor and no one is saying shit about what we should do next."

"Well, since you're so bloody talkative," Arthur snapped. "What do you propose we do?"

"I say we get the fuck out of here. It's not safe anymore, and who knows if there are more convicts nearby? Or some Organization member?"

"No," Matthew croaked, and everyone looked worriedly at him. He was staring right at Gilbert, eyes smoldering behind his glasses. "I want to be near Francis."

"Francis is dead." Gilbert said rather coldly, though he swallowed uncomfortably when he did. "What are you hoping for? The best thing to do is to accept that he's gone and move on before—"

"Let him mourn, for God's sake." Arthur said, pushing himself into a sitting position. "He's just lost the man who raised him!"

Gilbert stood, fists clenched. "And what if you lost Alfred by staying here, huh? Would feel guilty about staying then?"

"No one will touch him as long as I am around." Arthur said stonily. "No one,"

Alfred shook his head, but Arthur ignored him. The git would not be playing 'hero' again. That was for certain.

"I'm sure Mattie would have said the same thing about Francis, but look at him now! Nowhere civilized is safe. We have to accept that." Gilbert then added somberly, "We should have listened to Alfred. We should never have come here."

"We can't change that now." Ivan said. "What is done is done."

"Ja, but we can prevent more tragedies by leaving."

"You cold bastard." Matthew muttered, staring stonily at Gilbert. The Prussian snapped his gaze to him, mouth opening and closing, trying to form a reply, but too shocked at the accusation to do so. Matthew continued, "Francis was your friend. And now you're talking about him like he's nothing but a worthless pile of dust to be forgotten about as it blows away on the wind."

Gilbert scowled, offended. He looked just about to boil over with rage, but he held it in because of the position Matthew was in. In normal circumstances, though, he would shout down anyone who accused him of betraying his friends. "Don't make me out to be a heartless sonofabitch. I hate losing Francis just as much as you. But do you think this decision is easy for me? It's taking everything in me not to just snatch up a gun, pop off a round, shoot the fuck out of any of those bastards even slightly associated with that goddamn Organization who're not chickenshit enough to show up. But even though Francis is gone, I still have responsibilities. Just like you, and everyone else in here. You think I want my bruder killed like that, too? Goddammit, I've lost my two best friends and I'll be damned if I lose my bruder as well! Don't you understand? I've never run away from a fucking thing in my life, and now I'm being forced to. Because for once I realize that I can't stay and fight. After Toni and Francis—it took me fucking long enough and I'm not sure if I'll be able to maintain it, because every fiber of my body is fucking screaming to go out there and fuck anyone up who comes within my sight!"

They all fell into a stunned silence, Matthew staring with round eyes and Alfred glaring threateningly.

Ludwig finally stood and put a hand on his brother's tense shoulder. "East—"

"Nein," Gilbert shook off his hold. "We need to leave."

No one moved.

"Mattie," Alfred said. "He's right." Though he gave a look to Gilbert that clearly told him not to speak to Matthew like that ever again.

Matthew felt anger for his brother. Alfred was asking him to abandon Francis. He was sure Alfred wouldn't be so eager to do so if it had been Arthur who had been killed. But he forced himself to be calm—there was no need for more drama. Alfred, after all, only wanted the best for him. But Matthew was still reluctant. "But Francis—"

"Mattie," Alfred said firmly. "You have to let go. You can't keep lingering around here and getting lost in grief. Francis would have wanted you to be safe. You need to let go."

Matthew squinted his eyes shut. "I can't," he mumbled with strain, tears squeezed out from under the closed lids. "I can't let go, Al. Francis is, he was—"

Alfred's arms grew tighter around him. "He would have wanted you to leave. You still have your memories of him. He can't give anything else to you now. Staying here is not what he would have wanted for you."

Matthew shook his head, wanting to believe that Francis did want him to stay there, to continue to honor his memory, but he knew Francis would not have wanted that. He let out a shaky breath and nodded, "A-all right. When do we leave?"

Arthur examined the sky. Menacing, indigo clouds blotted out the moon and stars, and the rain still persisted. "When the rain stops. I'll be damned if I'm snuffed out by a cold."

It rained for two days straight. Occasionally, it would stop, and the group would scramble to pack their things. But when they were just heading out of the door, the rain would start again and they would be forced back inside.

Arthur, who in a way had become an unspoken leader of the group, was not taking any chances. Already they had lost two group members by murder and nearly another by illness. Both were things he was convinced he could protect against if only he could convince them to keep their heads and stick to their common sense. But now Arthur was in a tedious position. Now he felt that he had sole responsibility for the survival of the whole group. It was a great burden on his shoulders, but nothing that Arthur didn't think he could manage.

Nothing much happened during those days. Matthew was worriedly quiet and Alfred was always nearby. The American didn't openly comfort Matthew, because he knew that Matthew needed to get through this on his own. Gilbert was moodily silent. Once he'd suggested that they'd head out through the rain, but he had been quickly shouted down. Now he was brooding over in a secluded corner of the room, everyone being sure not to go near. Ludwig, however, muttered occasionally to him. But Gilbert never seemed to hear him. He kept glaring at the wall, his gaze menacing enough to burn through it. But it wasn't Francis that was on Gilbert's mind. No, he'd gotten that out of his system long ago.

He was thinking about he and Lovino. What they did a couple nights back. Was it desperation? Spite? Lovino had seemed so unstable when it had happened, but then again, the Italian had initiated it. But why? Hadn't he and Lovino just fought over Antonio's death? It didn't make sense. If Lovino claimed to love Antonio as much as he said he did—as much as Lovino acted as he did—then why, why would he want to have sex with Gilbert? Lovino had never liked Gilbert, had completely hated him, had expressed it a billion times over in every imaginable way.

He cast a glance over to the Italian, not for the first time that day. But Lovino's face was blank, held no hint to what he was thinking. The truth was, Gilbert had been watching Lovino more than he cared to admit. And he was worried. Lovino had never been one to let anyone he hated dominate him so easily. Well, maybe politically, but definitely not sexually. Lovino's behavior was unusual and worrying. Had the Italian finally cracked? He had lost his lover. And, apparently, he was still in love with Antonio. Very much so. And anyone who could get that close to Lovino must be really special. What Gilbert couldn't wrap his head around was why Lovino could possibly betray that love.

Betrayal. That's what Gilbert had done. Betrayed his best friend, Antonio, by sleeping with his living lover. And, somewhere (Gilbert hoped up there), Antonio was cursing him, shaking his head at him, disappointed. It made Gilbert's heart sink. Gilbert had always been loyal… until now. And to think that he was disturbing Antonio's rest… it made his stomach churn with guilt.

But it wasn't like Gilbert had hated the sex. It was fucking amazing to have such a release after weeks running and worrying. And Lovino had been surprisingly willing and responsive. He seemed like he wanted it, like he was desperate for it. And Gilbert felt so guilty about taking advantage of Lovino during a very sensitive time for him and he sorely hoped that Lovino didn't hate him for it. But after the sex, Lovino had been so quiet and cold. He didn't talk to him and, lately, didn't even acknowledge that Gilbert was there. When Gilbert had woken the next morning, Lovino was gone. Lovino's eyes were always downcast, his face always blank ever sinc. It unnerved Gilbert more than it rightfully should.

Now he felt a responsibility. Toni, I'm sorry. I should never have done it, I should have rejected him… but I will take care of him now. For you. I'll make sure he stays safe.

But he couldn't deny a bit of jealousy. During the height of their passions, Lovino had shouted Antonio's name. Not his. Was Lovino just using Gilbert as a vessel to get off? It enraged and confused the Prussian at the same time. He needed answers. Antonio's death. Francis's murder. Lovino's aloofness. He needed some fucking answers or he might just go insane.

The days were getting colder, and this one was no different in bitterness. Everyone stayed confined to their sleeping bags during most of the day. Kiku, always being of sound mind, made them dinner from the cans they had gathered. The food warmed them, but only physically. Everyone was hollow on the inside.

Feliciano didn't like the silence. And he especially didn't like how Lovino was acting. His brother had always been a stick in the mud, yes, but he seemed to be really… empty. It was like his spirit had flown out of him and the Lovino he was actually seeing was nothing but an empty shell. Lovino just sat there in his sleeping bag, moving occasionally, but never really looking at anything. It was as if his brother had gone blind.

Feliciano longed to ask Lovino what was wrong, but if he tried he knew that he would be breaking the delicate atmosphere that had been created and he didn't want to have that responsibility.

Everyone pretty much kept to themselves. Alfred was near Matthew, but he never spoke to him. Not a word. He just sat there, picking at the seams in his sleeping bag, carving out the floorboards with the end of his pocketknife, or just staring at a wall. He should feel bored. But he wasn't, really. It was like he was waiting for something grand to happen. He didn't know what, but it was enough for him to keep quiet and stay patient.

But it was at Ivan's expense. The Russian was already so worked up about what little time they might have left together, and he and Alfred both knew it. Ivan kept glancing at him, a silent plea in his eyes for Alfred to look at him, to say something to him, to come lay with him, if only for a minute, anything. And it made Alfred sad. But it felt so wrong to indulge in his newfound love with Ivan when Matthew was suffering. Ivan knew that, too, but that didn't stop him from trying to convince Alfred otherwise.

Finally, in the evening on the second day, the rain stopped. At first, no one moved, only watched silently for it to start again, as per usual. But it didn't. And so, Arthur was the first one to speak for hours.

"We should go, if that's any sign." His voice was hoarse from not speaking for a while, and he cleared his throat. "Shall we?"

Within minutes, they were ready to leave. And it was a good thing too. The house had had an affect on all of them. They thought it was safe. They thought it would protect them. They had been so wrong. The house, now, was an evil thing, something that fed off of their naivety and their belief that it would prove a useful asset to them. In their own ways they saw it as a hunched monster, whispering comfort in one ear while plunging a knife in the other.

It had, after all, lulled them into a sense of false security. So much so that they had lost Francis. And that was unforgivable.

Wordless, they trundled into the woods at the back of the house. They had made sure to take everything with them that the house had offered, but it wasn't much. A few matches. A hammer. Ammunition. Some twine. A bungee cord.

Their walk through the woods was solemn. Matthew watched the house until it disappeared behind the trees. And then he felt a deep, longing ache in his chest, but a great weight lifting off his shoulders at the same time. The cycle of mourning had been broken. Francis was gone. They were leaving him to rest. There was no reason why Matthew needed to worry.

Wynston, who felt like he'd been thoroughly forgotten about, walked at the head of the group, guiding them along. Though it felt more like he was leading lambs to slaughter. It all fell to him, it seemed. He had been the one who had suggested that they go to the town. His dad had been right. And now, Wynston was paying for his refusal to listen to him in guilt.

Then he remembered something and stopped abruptly. He turned to them and was alarmed when only a few looked up to acknowledge him.

"Guys," he said with great effort. "There ain't gonna be another body a water for miles. I forgot to ask, but does everyone have enough water?"

There was silence as they checked their canteens.

"I'm all out," Alfred answered.

"Me too," Arthur replied.

"Si," Lovino muttered, and Feliciano jumped next to him. It had been the first word he had heard him say in days.

Wynston sighed, feeling, once again, guilty. "I shoulda known to ask ya'll sooner. I'm such a goddamn dumbass…"

"No," Alfred said. "You're just shaken. We're all shaken. It's no wonder none of us thought about refilling our canteens before we left."

"Al," Matthew said quietly. "We can't go back there." Matthew's heart was pounding at the prospect. He could just imagine walking past that house again, seeing Francis's ghost, seeing the disapproval in his eyes at the fact that Matthew had left him behind. It had taken him so much to let go. It was almost unfair to even suggest going back.

"We have to," Arthur said, looking in the direction of the town. "We should be near the square. There's a fountain there. I'm sure it's overflowing with rainwater. Could say less about the bugs…"

"We have iodine." Yao said. "Let's go, get it over with, and leave this fucking place."

It took them all but ten minutes to reach the square, and they made sure to thoroughly scan the place for others who might want to cause them harm. As soon as they had concluded that there was no one around, they began to move.

"No, wait." Sadiq said, leaning on Ludwig for support. He still looked pale from his illness, but he'd assured them he was well enough to walk. "Should we just go out in twos or threes? You know, just in case someone is waiting?"

"No," Alfred said firmly. "We're not splitting up again. Some of us almost died doing that and one did. More people equals more eyes. Come on." He walked out into this square, handgun gripped tightly and cocked. The others followed, taking out their weapons and readying them as well.

Alfred was so alert, he swore he could hear a beetle as it scurried across the asphalt a few feet away. His senses were enhanced by adrenaline. And to think he idolized these 'superpowers.' The rush of blood to his extremities and the stiffness of his muscles made him want to throw up with anxiety.

He stopped dead as he heard something coming from the other side of the fountain. It echoed around the square and bounced back to him, to the group.

"There's someone there." Ivan said.

Alfred was too highstrung to throw even the slightest glance over his shoulder at them. "Sounds like someone's crying."

"Crying?" Arthur wrinkled his nose. "What sort of git would cry in such an open location?"

"It's a trap." Kiku muttered, tugging on Alfred's shirt. "Don't do it, Alfred-san."

Kiku was especially perceptive. He knew what Alfred's intentions were just by the movement of the muscles in the American's back. He seemed to be relaxing.

"No," Alfred said with intrigue. "No… I don't think it's a trap." And he began walking toward the fountain.

Arthur raised his gun and cocked it, aiming it at Alfred. "Take another step and I'll make sure you'll need me to help you with walking."

But Alfred barely heard. He was listening to the crying. It sounded horrible. Long, drawn-out moans of despair. Gasping, hiccupping sobs. This was no trap. No one could fake crying that good—could force the air out of their lungs like they wished for it to be their last.

He kept walking.

Arthur knew he had threatened to shoot Alfred in the leg, but he lowered his gun. He couldn't do it. Goddammit. he cursed himself. Still haven't changed after all these bloody years…

But he could follow Alfred. The git seemed too preoccupied listening to whatever fake crying there was coming from the fountain that he didn't even have his gun raised anymore.

He followed, and the rest of the group was not far behind. The crying grew louder as they got closer, and then abruptly stopped, as if the person crying had heard their approach. They immediately aimed their weapons, but there was no movement behind the statue the stranger was supposedly hidden behind.

"Let's ambush them." Gilbert suggested. "Be ready."

They all consented, and with a mouthed count to three, they all rounded the fountain and aimed at the figure laying behind the statue.

He was blond, shirtless and dirty, curled up in a tight ball. He began to sob as they stood there, watching him.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked firmly while the others looked around for signs of foul play. "Get up and let us see you. Don't try anything, or we'll shoot."

The man stopped crying, his sorrow dissolved to quivering whimpers, and then he gave an almost surprised gasp. The group tensed as the man unfurled himself from his position faster than they would have liked and stood on shaky legs, looking at them all. He was soaked and shivering. Tears were running down his face.

"Oh my God." he cried. "Oh my God, you found me."

And then Matthew was pushing through to the head of the group as everyone stood, mouths agape and eyes wide. The Canadian looked at the man, dropped to his knees, and said, his voice barely a whisper:

"Papa?"

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Things are starting to get complicated. Prumano problems, RusAme angst, and now... this FTW cliffhanger I just left you. IT WILL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS. o_elll