Not really much I can say but "Surprise!"

Warning: Angst, talk of rape, violence.

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

Just a Little Late

They stood in stiff silence for a few moments. Matthew's heart seemed to have stopped altogether and his sanity was hanging by a thread. He awaited the answer, his lungs screaming for air as he held his breath, all the while a chant rising in his mind of It can't be, it can't be, you're going crazy, Mattie, you're dead, you've died in your sleep, this is just a sick joke, it's a mirage…

Then the man gave a watery smile and said, "Oui, Matthieu. It is your Papa." And he walked over, knelt, and embraced Matthew as tightly as he could. He started crying again. "I thought I would never see you again. Oh mon Dieu, mon petit lapin, you found me." The rest of his words were lost in sobs, and he pulled back to kiss Matthew's forehead, cheek, and nose.

But Matthew was in a stupor of sorts and he did not say anything as Francis continued to fawn over him, his expression stony. Everyone behind him watched with shock and were too stunned to say anything.

Francis noticed Matthew's silence and looked at him with concern. "Matthieu, mon douce, what is wrong? You found me, and I'll never leave again, I promise."

But Matthew took both of Francis's hands in his—and shoved them away from him.

Francis looked at him in disbelief. "Quoi? Matthieu, don't you—?"

"You're dead." Matthew said, standing. He was boiling with rage, and he didn't know why. "You're supposed to be dead, goddammit, dead!" Tears burned his eyes and he wiped them grudgingly away. "Stop teasing me, Francis. Just stop! Can't you see how hard it was for me to let you go? You don't belong here. You're dead. Go up into the sky or something. Just leave me alone!"

Francis shook his head and stood as well. "Non, non, I am real, lapin, I am alive. I never died! You thought I died? Oh my God, Matthieu, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, please." He reached out to touch Matthew again, but the younger nation moved away and glared.

"Shut up! Stop lying. Stop trying to make me feel better. I know you died. I saw your body in the grave!" He was shaking with rage. How dare Francis come back to haunt him? What did he do to deserve it?

"That wasn't my body!" Francis countered, looking close to tears himself. "Please, believe me, lapin. I'm not dead. I'm alive. I've always been alive. I don't know who you buried, but it wasn't me."

"Don't call me that!" Matthew snapped and scrubbed at his eyes. His chest heaved in a sob. "Go away, just go away…"

"Mattie," Alfred said, deciding it was time that he speak up. "He's real. I can see him."

"Not you, too!" Matthew rounded on him. "Stop teasing me!"

"I'm not." Alfred said, hurt.

"We can all see him, Matthew-san." Kiku said with absolute calm. "He's alive."

Francis held his arms out. "Please, come here, Matthieu. I'm sorry that you thought I was dead. It must have been agony for you. Please, you can touch me. I'm not a ghost. See," He pressed his hand against the stone of the fountain. "It doesn't go through. I'm real. I'm solid."

Matthew calmed himself enough that he just stared for a moment, saying nothing. If this was only Francis's spirit, he wanted to take him in as much as he could before he disappeared. But if this was the real Francis, if he was alive…

He walked over and wrapped his arms around Francis. The Frenchman sniffed and cried softly as he did the same to Matthew, and they just held each other for a moment. Matthew could feel the warmth radiating off of Francis's skin. He could feel his lungs expanding with each quivering breath. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.

"You are alive…" Matthew muttered and began to cry as well. "Papa, you're alive!"

"Oui, Matthieu, oui…" Francis replied and kissed Matthew's ear before pulling back and rubbing at his eyes and running nose. "Ugh, look at me. I'm such a mess."

Arthur scoffed. "Now we know it's the real Francis. In the afterlife, I'm sure he would have looked a great deal cleaner." He meant it to be a joke, but it sounded more like he was telling himself that in reassurance. Francis was alive. Shit, what a miracle. The fucking prat. I cried over you. Arthur thought ashamedly. I cried over you and you're not even gone yet, another win for you, frogbreath. But he took solace in knowing that Francis's spirit hadn't seen him cry for him. That would have been embarrassing. It was all very joyful, but Arthur felt something inside him break. You thought Francis was dead. he mused. And what if he was? What would have happened to you? Arthur would have liked to tell himself that he would have gone on just fine without the French git, but he knew he couldn't have. And that only managed to add to the roil that was going on inside his head.

Matthew was so overcome with emotion that he couldn't do anything but cry for a while. And Francis held him, murmuring soothing French, stroking his hair. Nobody spoke. Nobody wanted to break the fragile moment.

And then Matthew sniffed, looked up at Francis, and asked, "W-what happened?"

Francis peered down at him and shook his head. "Not here. We need to get out. The convicts I was with were talking about how they had contacted the Organization and how they were coming for us…"

"Right," Arthur said. "Let's fill our canteens and get the as far as we fucking can away from here."

They walked for miles, far away from the town. Alfred counted each step to make sure.

His anxiety was on high. Ever since Francis's return, Alfred felt as if it was all too good to be true—that, sooner or later, they were going to lose another group member, this time for good. And he was determined not to let that happen. They'd had a scare with both Francis and Sadiq now. He would feel like a failure if he let it happen again.

He was glad to see that Matthew was happy again. His brother was laughing and smiling at every word Francis said, even though most of it was corny bullshit. Although most of it was spoken in French, Alfred could tell from the tone that it was rather gushy. He glanced back over his shoulder at the pair and felt a mushy smile part his lips in spite of himself. Though he noticed that Matthew, however happy he appeared to be, kept glancing at the collar and chain that was wrapped around Francis's neck, hidden beneath the thick wool coat Matthew had packed and given to him to keep him warm. Everyone had noticed the collar, but they were all too scared to ask why or how it was there.

Lovino bumped into him. "Oops, sorry, man." Alfred muttered, but the Italian only grunted and righted himself before trundling off to the edge of the group. Alfred frowned after him. Lovino had been acting rather withdrawn lately. Normally, the Italian would be in the midst of the group to satisfy his sense of security, but he seemed now to be growing more distant by the day. Not even Feliciano seemed to be able to help. Feliciano stared worriedly after his brother, but didn't go over to him.

But what really worried Alfred was Arthur. The Briton seemed high-strung, if flinching at every crack of a twig and caw of a bird wasn't enough evidence. Every once in a while, Arthur would whip his head around, as if hearing a bear slashing its way up to him, scanning his eyes over all of them before clearly relaxing and turning back around.

He walked over and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. His frown deepened when the older man flinched. "Everything all right, Artie?"

Arthur let out a breath. "Yes, everything is fine, Alfred."

The response was hollow, and Alfred wanted to ask Arthur more, but the statement was obviously dismissive. Sighing in defeat, he dropped to the back of the group again and found himself walking beside Ivan.

"You look tired." the Russian said, not turning his head.

Alfred laughed at that. "Yeah, well, we all look pretty fucked up."

"Nyet," Ivan said, his voice dropping. He didn't dare move closer to Alfred or even look at him for the risk of their relationship being found out. Ivan wouldn't mind the exposure, though. He wanted everyone to know. But Alfred's pride was still something to consider, and he didn't want to drive the American away when he had gotten this close. "I am meaning that you have been distant."

"Distant?" Alfred mumbled. He wasn't distant. Arthur and Lovino had been distant.

"Da, distant." Ivan replied.

Alfred came to a realization and sighed. "Ivan, I'm sorry for seeming that way to you. But Mattie needed me—"

"And you do not think that I need you as well?" Ivan asked. They met eyes for a moment and Alfred gave a flustered blush before looking away abruptly.

"I didn't think that—"

"Now Matvey is better." Ivan cut in. "We can… be together now, da?" It was a big step for Ivan. His heart had been thoroughly stomped on throughout the centuries and he didn't know if he could handle it if he was rejected now.

But Alfred gave a small smile. It was just a flicker of a smile, here one second, gone the next. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Ivan was internally embarrassed as his heart began to beat. It seemed so loud to his ears, which hadn't heard the muscle's sounds for a long while. Could anyone else hear it? It was beating loud enough…

He had a great yearning to kiss Alfred right then, in front of everybody, and he didn't care who saw. But Alfred's silence and downcast eyes reminded him that this had to stay their secret—for now.

"There are no other towns for miles." Wynston said, back to his normal, upbeat self. Francis wasn't dead because of him. And now he would be sure to make up for his mistake by leading them as deep into the wild, as far from the dangers of civilization, as possible. "We should rest."

The others consented and they quickly made camp. The sun was hanging low in the sky and the approaching night was sapping all of the warmth from the earth. When they had first formed their little group, it had been the end of summer. Now, they were in the thick of fall. The nights were getting longer and colder, and, pretty soon, it would snow. Feet of it. And then they would freeze.

Wynston was worrying over this, naturally. He knew how cold it could get during the winter in Wyoming, and without adequate clothing and shelter… they might as well shoot themselves in the foot because they were already half dead and it would take but a little to finish them off.

So, as they started a fire that night and huddled around it, sleeping bags wrapped around them to shield from the chill, the state said, "We'll freeze if we stay here much longer. We need ta head south. That's our only chance."

"We can only go so many miles a day." Arthur replied. "And we've already settled that we will not be visiting anymore towns except to stock up on supplies. We're on our own now."

The last statement seemed to ring through the air like a bell. Everyone brooded on that thought and how hard it would be to actually live up to it… or live through it at all.

"Wynston's right." Alfred said from his place beside Matthew. "We need to move south. Hell, people died out here with the first move west. And when the snow rolled in… people fucking cannibalized each other (1). In the end, it was survival of the fittest. I don't want us to ever have to come to that. I don't want to turn into a goddamn animal…" Alfred swallowed dryly, recalling the man he'd beaten to death not but a few days ago. Would he have eaten him, too? He'd lost himself enough to pound the bastard into a pulp, who knew what would have happened if Arthur hadn't stopped him…? "We have to move fast. That's our only chance. We're approaching the plains. It's tough out there. No trees for miles, sometimes. Nothing but small mammals or bison to eat, and both take time and skill to catch. By now, the herds will be moving south… and everything else will go with them. If we don't follow, we'll starve. If we're going to live like animals, we're going to have to follow the rest."

Wynston exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus. I haven't lived like that for a century an' a half. An' with the herds so depleted, who knows if we'll come across any bison? They're so small in number… damn, I had Injuns helpin' me last time. An' afta so long… I don't know if I'll be able ta do it on my own."

"But you won't be doing it on your own." Arthur said. "We'll all learn. We'll have to. Sure, it's been near five or six centuries since I've lived a meager life. It's hard, that's all I can remember. But the British Empire didn't thrive on ignorance and languid demeanors. I'll learn. We'll all learn with time. It's amazing how much people can accomplish in dire circumstances. And we'll be the same."

There was silence. Then Arthur cleared his throat and looked at Francis. He didn't want to ask, but then again he had to know. Francis met his eyes, a flicker of fear passing behind them, as if he knew what he was going to be asked.

"Francis. What happened?"

Francis took a deep breath and shook his head. "Oh, Dieu, it was a miracle. Never had I been so aware of my very being as then, when my life could be snuffed out so easily, at any moment…"

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.

And the gun jammed.

"What…?" Peter was so surprised at the complication that he gave Francis time—precious time. And within that short moment, Francis realized that he didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave Matthew, who he loved so dearly who depended so much on him. He didn't want to leave Arthur, whom he hadn't yet had a chance to love.

Determination sparked within him, more powerful than any drive he'd felt before. This wasn't for his country. He had none. This wasn't for his people. None were loyal to him now. This was for him, Francis, and it seemed strangely more intimate now that he was the one who was being directly targeted.

So, as Peter was fumbling with his gun and Jamal was scoffing at him for his lack of skill, Francis managed to wrench out of the grip of the men holding him. Before the convicts could come through their shock, Francis had taken up the chain attached to the collar around his neck in both hands, whipping it around in a wide, whistling arc. The men screeched as he slashed the chain along their chests, shoulders, and heads. Blood sprayed from broken noses and split lips.

"Holy fuck!" Peter shouted, and Francis quickly smote him down with his chain-whip. Next, he turned to Jamal and swung the chain in his direction, the links rattling menacingly. There was fire in his eyes.

These men had hurt him.

And now he wanted to see their blood pool.

Francis shook with a kind of morbid excitement. All the blood and violence… it was just like his revolution. The red coated his chain just as it had coated the blade of the guillotine as it went down, down, down, for hours, hours, hours.

And he found it exciting. Vanquishing those he didn't like. Of course, he'd come to his senses afterwards, but there was no denying that this situation brought that urge back out in him.

Oh, God. He was killing.

And he didn't care.

The little manic giggle that escaped him frightened him more than he could say as he struck down the convicts. Jamal, who had ducked out of the way of his chain many times now, ducked again and made a grab for him.

But Francis dodged, dancing out of the way like the old days when he fought with not a chain, but a whetted cutlass.

And then a hand gripped his shoulder, and just like that, his reverie was broken. He snapped out of it and then realized that he was still surrounded by many men. And now they looked severely pissed.

His chain dropped, and Francis turned on his heel, escaping from the man's grasp, his instincts taking over, fleeing for his life. The convicts followed, some stumbling and groaning from their injuries, shouting obscenities after him, pursuing him with overly loud feet.

He ran to the woods, the only place he considered safe anymore. Towns were evil. Towns were a plague.

Francis dove into the brush, fighting his way through, only realizing after five minutes of flight that his chain was rattling, drawing the convicts to him like foxhounds to the sent of the quarry.

He had the sense to grab the chain to keep it from making noise and snagging him on the various bushes and underbrush. He could hear the men shouting behind him, but Francis was running, sprinting, his energy seeming endless. Run, run, run. was what his body was screaming at him. Run back to Matthew, and Arthur, and the rest.

But the convicts were gaining, although they seemed to have lost him, and Francis's strength began to wane. His heart throwing itself against his ribs, Francis's eyes darted around the ground until they locked on a thicket. He dove for it, thistles piercing his flesh and snagging his hair, taking out some of it, but that mattered little to him. He fought to keep his voice silent as he continued to force himself through the thicket, bleeding from the cuts he picked up along the way.

And then he waited. It seemed like forever until he could see the convicts. There. Right there, in front of him. And it seemed to Francis, as ridiculous as it sounded, that they could see him, like Francis was a bright beacon shining through the brush and, oh God, they would find him, they would…

But the convicts convened, cursed, and trudged off through the woods. Francis waited until dark, crouched in that thorny thicket, the insects sounding their night songs around him, moving beneath his feet, but Francis didn't care.

Finally, he calmed himself enough to crawl out. He was cold, shivering, his sweat having cooled significantly against his skin. He was freezing, but he was only vaguely aware. He needed to get home. Home—the group.

But how? He was lost. There was no way back…

Francis sat down in the dirt, shirtless, chilled, hopeless, and he felt something annoyingly grinding into his thigh…

Francis jumped, thinking it was some animal, and then realizing that it was something in his pants. Desperate, he clawed it out and raised it up to a stream of moonlight shining in through the trees.

A compass. Arthur's compass. No, his, compass now. He'd won it from him in a game betting who would survive or not. It seemed so far away now and so barbaric. How could they have played that game when life was too precious to place a price on?

East. That's where he needed to go. Because he remembered Wynston saying that they had to head west before they reached the town…

He stood, shivering, and guided himself in that direction. Examining the forest ahead of him, he swallowed and looked up at the moon. So beautiful and bright. Nothing could touch it.

How ironic.

Would he survive? He was so cold already…

But he didn't think about that as he followed the direction of the compass. His life depended on that compass. And it was because of the fact that it was Arthur's that Francis credited the maintenance of sanity.

He walked for hours until he reached the town, after his bare torso was numb from the cold. He stepped out into the open, fearing the men would see him, but he was no longer by the old school. He was in the square. A fountain sat in the center, beckoning him.

Francis walked toward it, the wind driving icy needles into his skin. Above him, the sky rumbled menacingly, its only warning before a crack of lightning illuminated the gray clouds and the stark buildings around the square, and rain began to fall.

Francis knew that if he didn't find shelter, he would freeze to death. He willed his numb legs to move to the nearest shelter: a thrift store.

He dove in and found a place beneath a rack of clothing, feeling safer with a curtain of cloth surrounding him. He pulled his legs up to him and studied the compass, the thing that had kept him alive. He thought about Arthur, not for the first time, and kissed it as if it were the Briton's own lips; soft and affectionate.

Please, he begged. Let me live. I've gotten so far. At least let me tell Matthieu and Arthur goodbye. At least let me see their faces again.

He fell asleep like that, curled up in the cramped space. But his body was so exhausted, he could care less about the uncomfortable position. That and he was scared that the men were going to come in at any moment and find him unless he stayed hidden in the clothes.

The warmth of the sun heating the clothing woke him, and he stayed in the rack for a while, warming his frigid body. He sniffled, his nose running, and sneezed. He looked at his hands. They were so pale, pricked with thistles, and shaking. He would have a cold before long. That sapped all the hope out of him.

I have to get back. he thought determinedly. I have to. I have to.

Before I die.

He followed the route back to the house the others were at. The sun was centered in the sky—it was noon. When had it stopped raining?

Why did he care? At least it was warm.

He reached the place, and, too tired to walk around to the back, he fell to his knees and rapped on the door. When no one moved inside the house, he knocked again.

"C'est moi… Francis… mes amis… please…"

Nothing.

His heart leapt into his throat and he forced himself to his feet, knocking louder. "Hello? Please, come outside. I'm back, please, come and get me. I don't think I can…"

Still, nothing.

Francis forced himself to walk around the house to the back door. His hands steadied him against the wall as he moved along, weary and frightened that he may have been forgotten. He reached the door and stepped inside.

Gone. They really were gone. They had left without him. They probably thought he was dead.

Francis was angry at first. How could they assume him to be dead if they never came for him? How could they leave so soon? They barely even tried!

Francis felt numb as he continued back around the house and to the square again. Ten minutes passed, but he barely noticed. He sat on the fountain, staring at the woods. Yes, that's where they should have gone. They wouldn't stay in town after what had happened. They wouldn't stay in any town…

Tears sprung to Francis's eyes, and he didn't try to stop them. He let them come, let them slide down his cheeks as he choked out a sob. He was alone. All alone. The group had left him without even knowing he was still alive. And not even Arthur's compass could help him now.

Oh God, Arthur. What was the Briton thinking? Was he sad that Francis was gone? No, probably not. He was probably rejoicing…

He laid down on the cold, wet stone, curling up and burying his face in his hands. What a fool. he mused. What a fool you are, Francis. You thought you could live forever. What a goddamn fool.

He couldn't escape death—not twice. The men were still looking around for him, he knew. And he cried as loudly as he goddamned pleased, because he would have his way before they came for him.

No Matthew. No Arthur. No anybody. He was alone, and he'd given up. He almost wished the men would hurry to find him, to kill him, even though he knew they would do many more horrible things before they had the mercy to dispatch him…

And then he heard feet approaching. His fear came back to him along with all the terrible memories of the abuse. He broke out in shudders, not from the cold. He didn't want to be raped again. He didn't want those filthy men to touch him… Kill me. Please, dear God, just kill me.

Oh God. They were coming around the fountain. Francis squeezed his eyes shut and began crying again. They would take him, right here, the cold bastards. They didn't give a shit if he suffered. God, what had he done to deserve this? I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

And then, "Who are you?"

Francis stopped crying. His heart almost stopped.

"Get up and let us see you. Don't try anything, or we'll shoot."

No. No, it can't be. He was dying, and he was hearing what he wanted to hear. He was hearing Arthur's voice, and it sounded so beautiful to Francis's ears. Shaking, he unfurled himself and stood, turning to face him…

And found that the whole group was there, staring, mouths agape, at him. He was so shocked that all he could say was, "Oh my God. Oh my God, you found me."

Then Matthew came through and stared at him, eyes wide, dropping to his knees. "Papa?"

Francis began to cry again. "Oui, Matthieu. It is your Papa."

Francis's throat grew scratchy, and he cleared it. "So… that is what happened." Francis left out everything he'd thought about Arthur, but telling it still made him feel exposed.

Everyone was quiet, taking it in. Arthur, especially. Francis had used his compass to find them. If Arthur had never given Francis that compass…

"We killed them all. You don't have to worry." Matthew said, then he added more quietly, "But you're not telling us everything." He felt guilty about asking this in front of everyone, and even asking him at all, but they were a team now, and in order to survive they needed to be honest with each other. "What did those men do to you, Francis? Why are you wearing that…?" He left the question hanging, the collar and chain so loathsome that he refused to address it. Who would do such a thing?

All eyes fell on Francis, but the Frenchman was shaking. He still had Matthew's coat on, but he didn't think he could tell them what happened. It had only been a few hours ago, and the scars were too fresh to talk about without painfully ripping them open. But he understood that he needed to get it off his chest. If he didn't, he felt as if he would become isolated. And, if anything, he didn't want to be separated from his group again.

So, he took a deep breath and, staring at the ground, said, "There was another captive there before me. A woman. She was chained up with this…" He lifted the chain. "She was dead. Had just died before I'd gotten there. The men said they'd used her… t-too much. They had worn her out. I think she was the one you mistook for me and buried."

Tears came to Matthew's eyes even though Francis had yet to fully answer his question. He knew what was coming, and he hoped to God it wasn't true. It was obvious that Francis was struggling to begin again, was just staring blankly down at the ground, hands shaking, his breathing ragged. Matthew took his hand and held it tightly. Francis gave a little sob and smiled weakly at the comfort he received from the touch.

"They said they needed a new one, a new… whore. They said they would use me… they stripped me down, I lost my shirt." His laugh was hollow and weak. "They took the collar off the woman and put it on me… a-and they took me right there, r-right next to her. I felt so sick… there were many of them. I don't remember how many, because I stopped counting. They used me from behind and there were some that didn't want to… th-they used my mouth. All of them had their turn. Sick bastards. They made me swallow…" Francis's throat contracted, and bile burned its way up from his stomach.

"No," Matthew cried and brought the back of Francis's hand to his lips.

But Francis pulled his hand back and stood, looking at them all. His face was pale and his eyes bloodshot. "Pardon-moi—I'm going to throw up." And he hurried off into the forest. But he didn't get far. They could hear the retching.

Matthew had dissolved into sobs, face in his hands. How could anyone be so heartless? Why hadn't they tried harder to rescue Francis? Why hadn't they gotten to him sooner?

"Mattie," Alfred muttered and moved over to him, reaching out.

Matthew raised his head and glared at him. "Don't touch me." he half-cried. "You were too late. Why were you too late?"

Alfred drew back and shook his head. "Mattie, it wasn't our fault. The rain—"

"Who gives a shit about the rain?" Matthew shouted, getting to his feet. "You were too fucking late, Alfred!" He glared at those who were in the rescue group. "Arthur, Kiku, Ivan. Too fucking late!" And he marched off into the trees. His consoling voice could be heard, followed by more retching.

Translations:

Mon douce-My sweet

Quoi?-What?

References:

1-The Donner Party: A wagon train of 81 people heading across the west to California during 1846. Since maps of the American West were hardly accurate at that time, most hadn't a clue where they were going. As so, they usually took up with the natives (mostly ones befriended by the French fur traders) to direct them across the country. At one point, one native told them that they should probably hunker down and wait until winter blew over to journey any further, but (being the pretentious, Manifest-Destiny-supporting pioneers they were) the party decided to forgo the warnings and as a result found themselves trapped in the Sierra Nevadas by a large winter storm. The party (luckily) found some cabins and made camp, but food stores quickly ran out. So a group of 15 (very brave) people decided to attempt to reach California on snowshoes. But only seven of this party ever made it to any form of civilization and only because they cannibalized their dead companions. The first search party reached the rest of the encamped party in February of 1847, 10 months after the original party had set out, only to find 36 had succumbed to exposure, starvation, disease, and trauma. Most of the 45 survivors had also resorted to cannibalism. So, a lesson to everyone: if you don't know the lay of the land, listen to those who have been living there for hundreds of years and do know before proceeding. Common sense or chewing on a Larry Popsicle. Your choice. (Hush, there's always a Larry!)

A Word From the Writer: Winter is coming. I'm sorry, I just had to say it. :3 Annnnyway, I know what you're thinking: "Why would you kill a character and make it all sad and then bring him back? What are you playing at, you cold bastard?" Think about it. I never said in my commentary that France had died. Sure, I talked a lot about death and how it added to the drama, blah, blah, blah. I did it for the feels, y'all. And I'm not gonna reveal everything now, but I will tell you that I have killed off two characters so far in my writing (and they're not my OCs). There will be a lot of close calls as well, just like this one. You think I'd let you relax? Pfft, yeah right!

And, wow, Canada blew up. Who knew he could have such a temper after being ignored for most of his life?