Angst overload ahead. I do not take any responsibility for injuries from extreme feels!

Warning: Angst (LOTS), paranoia, a frightening scenario, gore, RuseAme fluff, and tense Prumano.

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

Catch Me Falling

Matthew slept with Francis. They took a tent after the Frenchman had thrown up all the food in his stomach… but it was worth it. At least the mens' cum was out of him.

Francis wanted to be close. And so did Matthew. The Canadian crawled into his sleeping bag and wrapped his arms around him. They were facing each other.

Francis couldn't stop staring at him. He gave a small smile. "You are so beautiful, Matthieu. Just like your Papa."

Matthew laughed softly in spite of himself and said, "Are you okay, Francis?" What a stupid question. He'd been raped by who knew how many men. Of course he wasn't! He rephrased the question, "Is there anything I can do to help you? I don't want you to lose whatever happiness you have left."

Francis sighed. "Just… stay close to me."

"I can do that."

Silence.

"Mon lapin?"

"Papa?"

"I'm sorry you thought I was dead."

Matthew huffed. "You don't have to say sorry, Francis. I already told you that."

"Je sais," Francis muttered, looking into his eyes. He ran his fingers through Matthew's hair. Oh God. If he could never do that again… "But I can't stand seeing you sad."

Matthew smiled and tears pushed their way to his eyes. He ran his fingers over the chain leading from Francis's neck. "God, I don't want to see this on you. I should have gone. I would have given them hell."

Francis smiled sadly. "It's not your fault, nor anyone else's. It was purely bad luck. You were unstable. It would have given me great terror to see you come to rescue me. I want you to be safe." Then he added, "And this chain does not hamper me. It is broken. I broke it for you. I wanted to see you again, petit. I wanted to see my little one again."

Matthew's eyes clouded with tears and he hugged Francis. "Je t'aime, Papa."

"Je t'aime aussi, mon lapin."

And they fell asleep like that, holding each other as tightly as they could. Or at least Matthew did. Francis was too afraid the convicts would wreak havoc in his unconscious mind.

Arthur, meanwhile, was bunking with Sadiq. Their tent mates had left them, and someone needed to be there to watch over Sadiq. Despite the Turk's denial, he was still sick.

"Did you take your medication?" Arthur asked as Sadiq inched gingerly into his sleeping bag. Even through the dark, his face was strained.

Sadiq scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, don't worry so much. And no bitching like you always do. I'm too tired for that shit."

"I do not bitch." Arthur flashed back, but Sadiq was already asleep—or ignoring him. So Arthur just lay there, staring up at the arc of the tent. Francis was back. The stubborn bastard hadn't died.

But what did that mean to him?

Nothing. Arthur said firmly to himself. Nothing at all. He'd thought whatever he'd thought about Francis because he'd believed Francis had died. Francis was his… friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

But he still had trouble sleeping.

Ivan felt the sleeping bag move and a warm body leave his side. He opened his eyes.

"Alfred, nyet. Come back to bed."

Alfred tried to ignore the peculiar flutter his heart made at the last statement, and he stood. "I have to check on Artie. He didn't look so good when he went to bed…"

"Nyet," Ivan repeated, patting the empty side of the sleeping bag. "You can check on him in the morning. You will freeze. To bed."

Alfred looked at him and gave a frustrated sigh. "All right. But first thing tomorrow morning. At the crack of dawn." And he crawled back into the sleeping bag.

Ivan chuckled. "Ah, Alfred is suggesting that he will wake up before noon? What an accomplishment that would be."

Alfred smiled in spite of himself, looking at him. "Yeah, smartass. It's gonna happen."

Ivan's smile disappeared, and he felt that urge again. He leaned down, capturing Alfred's lips in a soft kiss. Alfred, though surprised, reciprocated with equal gentleness. It was such an intimate moment, something that Ivan needed now, that he lost himself in it.

But he needed more.

His hand trailed down to the waistband of Alfred's pants, slipping it in to stroke his thigh. Alfred moaned into his mouth. Encouraged, Ivan trailed his fingers around to the heat between the American's legs…

And then Alfred seemed to wake from a dream, flinching and drawing quickly back from him. Ivan withdrew his hand, hurt and disappointed. He had been so close! He was going to try again, but the look on Alfred's face convinced him otherwise.

"I-I'm sorry, Ivan." Alfred said awkwardly. "But… I've got a lot on my mind, ya know? And after that thing with Francis… it just doesn't seem…"

"Like the right time." Ivan finished for him. "I know. I'm sorry."

Alfred relaxed noticeably. "Thanks. And don't be sorry." He leaned over to kiss him on the lips again. Ivan savored every moment of it. "We'll get there, and I'm just as eager as you. But just not now."

Ivan tried not to look too disappointed, so he gave a soft smile. "I understand."

They lay like that, staring at the roof of the tent in awkward silence. But Ivan had something on his mind that he had to address. He turned to look at Alfred and pulled him close. When Alfred moved his head to meet his eyes, Ivan kissed him on his chapped lips.

"What happened to Francis," Ivan began, staring seriously at Alfred. "I never want that to happen to you. I will never let that happen to you. And I will kill anyone who would even consider it."

Alfred just stared, not knowing what to say. It seemed strangely intimate, Ivan promising to kill for him. Though Alfred rightly knew it shouldn't come across that way, he was still moved by the words.

"I will do the same." Alfred replied, running his fingers through Ivan's ash-blond hair. The softness of it comforted him.

"Nyet," Ivan grabbed his wrist and lowered it. "You will not play hero. I have seen you piss the wrong people off and the consequences because of it. I will not have you put yourself in harm's way for me."

Alfred was embarrassed when he felt tears burn his eyes. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from Ivan's. He'd never seen him so sincere. "I've always wanted you to say that." Alfred muttered, surprised at himself. He was the hero, no one else. Especially not a former commie. But he began to realize how exhausted he was. Being a hero was hard, even for him. And in times like these, he could do with a break. But, until now, there had been no one willing or good enough by his standards to take his place.

And now Ivan was telling him everything was going to be okay. That he would take care of him. Alfred had never let anyone take care of him before. Not after Artie. He did it all himself and now…

He realized that he didn't have to do it alone.

Alfred scoffed at himself as tears ran down his cheeks, and he wiped at them, sniffing. "S-stupid. Dumbass tears…"

"Tears take away the pain, da?" Ivan said, leaning in to kiss them off his cheeks. Alfred's breath hitched, and he swore his heart skipped a beat. He hadn't expected the Russian to be so sweet.

When Ivan pulled back, looking at him deeply and affectionately, Alfred couldn't keep the words from spilling from his mouth: "You don't know how much I want you."

Ivan chuckled as Alfred's face heated up and smiled. "I do know, Alfred." I've been wanting you this whole time.

Alfred scoffed again and kissed him on the mouth, fingers once again threading through his hair. And he realized, Oh my God. I don't want to die. Not now. Not when we've just gotten so close. I don't want to leave you, Ivan. The reality of death was so stark now that Francis had miraculously returned from it, after Alfred had seen Matthew break down and become a hollow shell of a human being. Would Ivan do the same if Alfred died and never returned? Would Matthew and Arthur and everyone else who gave two shits about him walk around like souls in purgatory after he was gone? And it would be all his fault, everything was his fault. No different now.

He snuffled and gave a half-laughing sob. "Mattie's mad at me. He's pissed." He looked up at Ivan, tears sliding down his cheeks with burning conviction. "I did it. Mattie's my brother, and I did it. I should have tried harder. I should have tried—"

Ivan shushed him and pulled him to his chest. "Matvey did not mean it. You know that. Go to sleep."

It wasn't exactly the most comfortable position (with Alfred's nose pressed into Ivan's chest), but it made Alfred feel safe and loved.

And his tired mind didn't need anymore encouragement to retire than that.

Arthur opened his eyes.

And he immediately sat up. He was in a field. No sight of trees, shrub, sky, anything. Just an endless expanse of dry, stubby yellow grass. He looked up at the sky—or rather where the sky rightfully should be, but it was empty, hollow, gray. Dread filled him immediately, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He was dreaming again. And just like his others, this one would be a nightmare. And judging from the pattern of his dreams of late, it would be a great deal worse than those that came before it.

He was almost afraid to look down. But he did. And he deeply regretted it.

His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and he felt all the blood drain from his limbs.

"Oh my God, no."

Strewn around him in all sorts of grotesque positions, were his group. All lying motionless, pale, limbs twisted—like marionettes with their strings cut. The sight made all the breath go from him and tears spill from his eyes.

"No," he said firmly. "No, it's just a dream. My dream. I can change it. I want them alive. Oh God, I need them alive." He closed his eyes, imagining the faces of the nations in his mind; happy, bright, living. But as soon as he got the picture in his head, it slipped away, turning to water between the groping fingers of his memory. And then all went dark in his head, and he couldn't open his eyes.

He was blind.

No, was trapped in his own head. Yes, that was it. Like that was any better than not being able to see…

And then he could see. It was like watching an old tape slide of what he perceived to be memories, zooming by until they slowed and he could make out what was happening.

It was him. He had a wild look in his eyes. His other self was standing over the sleeping body of Matthew. He raised a knife, plunging it into the sleeping bag. Blood sprayed and pooled, covered the blade, his face. What could only be Matthew's voice rose in a rasping, watery scream—an animalistic deflating balloon. And Arthur's twin turned to face him, a smile stretched on his face. A manic giggle spilled from his lips. Arthur couldn't breathe, his stomach roiling, as the tape sped up, and the murders continued, flying by speedily. All Arthur could see were the bodies and the bright red of their blood.

"No," Arthur screamed. "No! No! Stop it, goddammit! Stop!" He dug his fingers into his scalp and shook his head, gritting his teeth. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. "I'm in control! This is my mind, mine!"

"Arthur,"

Arthur turned and looked across the expanse of his mind to an illuminating light in the vast darkness. And he dropped to his knees and stared.

"Br-Britannia?"

Britannia, his beautiful mother, held out her arms, beckoning. "Come here, my darling. Come to me."

Arthur forgot his fear and anger and he surged forward, hugging her tightly. Her soft, golden curls stretched down to his nose, tickling it slightly. After all these years, he was still shorter than her. But that didn't matter. His mother was here, and he loved her, and she would always keep him safe, always, she'd promised him…

"Oh, my little one." Britannia cooed in her comforting voice that felt like silk to Arthur's ears. "You're shaking, Arthur. Why are you so frightened, my love?"

Arthur was about to explain when he felt something cold, wet, and wormlike slide over his ear. Confused, he looked up and screamed.

Britannia was barely recognizable. A black tongue snaked out of her mouth, covering his face with slime. Her eyes were large, like an owl's, her cheekbones pronounced. Gray, melting skin stretched over her face, her nose peeling back to reveal the bone. She smiled as Arthur screamed and squirmed in her grasp, spiderlike hands digging claws into his flesh. She withdrew her tongue, hid it behind her sharp teeth, each one chiseled to a deadly point.

"Why are you so frightened, Arthur, my love?" Britannia's voice was a hiss. "Don't be frightened, Mother is here, Mother will make it better."

Arthur pushed her, kicked out, tried to get away. His stomach turned over when some of her melting skin spilled onto his chest. Her face was nothing but bone now.

"Let Mother show you what you want to see."

And then he opened his eyes on the field again. For a moment, he was relieved… and then he peered down at his hand. In it was a knife, and it was covered with blood. All of him was covered in blood. Beside him, the limp body of Alfred lay, his entrails strewn across the ground.

"Oh, oh, Christ," Arthur felt like he would retch.

"Look at you, love." Britannia's voice was nowhere and everywhere at once. Inside his head, outside, flooding through him. "I am so happy you have found such a talent. Something you love."

"Sick," Arthur said, flinging the knife away from him. He stood, staring down at the body, and then looked up to see the bodies piling up. Kiku, Francis, Matthew, Ivan, Sadiq, Feliciano…

"Sick," Arthur repeated. "Fucking sick! Oh Jesus, oh God…" Tears wound their way down his face as his stomach did somersaults.

And then he was holding the knife again, and he shrieked with its reappearance. It was absolutely dripping with blood. No, flowing with it. Blood was pouring from the blade, onto his clothes, shoes, everywhere.

"You love it, darling, my love." Britannia hissed. "Now it's your turn."

And his hand raised on its own. "What? Wait, stop!" The blade was at his throat in seconds.

"Don't be frightened, little one." Britannia cooed in her sickly-sweet voice. "It will be such a release… you love it. You know you do. You love to kill, Arthur. You like seeing red."

"No!" Arthur screamed, feeling the tip of the blade puncture him. "I don't! I never!"

"Oh, but you do." He could feel the spider fingers on his shoulders, trailing down to his front. The tongue returned, swiping over his face, jabbing into his ear, picking his brain. "You let those boys die. Your crew, you watched them drown. You let your brothers die. Didn't I tell you to be nice to each other, Arthur, my love? Didn't I tell you to play nice?

"Now it's your turn. Join the others. Let go, my darling. Let go." she hissed.

Arthur's scream turned to strained gurgles as the blade cut into his throat, all the way to his spine. Blood poured out of his mouth like a grotesque, bubbling waterfall.

Britannia laughed—a high ringing sound that crackled in the air. She licked up stray drops of blood from Arthur's face.

"Such a good boy. Always my good boy.

"You will kill them all for Mother, won't you? My darling, my love, my sweet Arthur."

Arthur kicked himself awake.

He opened his eyes and lay there, breaths heavy and heart pounding against his ribs. His whole body was shaking and he was covered with sweat. He lay there for a few minutes, struggling to calm himself down, staring at the tent roof. Finally, he found the will to move his head, though he was afraid of what he might see.

But it was only Sadiq, lying still and unconscious in his sleeping bag. He took a deep, shaky breath and looked up at the top of the tent again.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked quietly, tears flooding his eyes. "God, Mother, I miss you. I miss everyone." He cried and felt guilty. Guilty that he had portrayed his mother as such a horrible creature in his dreams. His dreams. The things he was supposed to control.

He lay there, crying quietly for some time before he felt his eyes sag with sleep. But he snapped them open. He couldn't fall asleep again. No, he couldn't. Because if he fell asleep, who knew what he would dream about?

But he needed sleep. The nightmares had been keeping him up, and for the past two days, Arthur had not slept for fear of the dreams or waking up to see everyone murdered by some psychotic maniac. And now his strength was waning because of it. He needed to be alert for his group. He needed to be strong for his group.

And then it came to him. He flew from his sleeping bag like a bat out of hell, rifling through his backpack and hoping to God he still had it. And then he found it. The dreamcatcher.

He slipped back into his sleepingbag. Sure, its powers might not exist, but then again, everyone had told him that magic wasn't real, and Arthur still used it. Perhaps this was real. It wasn't magic, but Arthur could feel some sort of energy pulse from it as he cradled it close to his chest. It warmed his hands, and he felt sleepier.

Within moments, he was fast asleep.

Gilbert couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he thought of Lovino, and how sleeping with him had betrayed Antonio.

He couldn't rest without answers. He needed to know why Lovino was avoiding him, why he had even wanted the sex. He made sure Ludwig was asleep before venturing out into the frigid night air. His breath misted in front of him as he made his way over to the Italies' tent.

He unzipped the flap and crawled inside as quietly as he could. Both of them were sleeping. It almost made him jealous and angry. How could Lovino be sleeping so soundly with what had happened between them, with how he had turned his back on Antonio? The Spaniard deserved better.

He moved over to Lovino and put a hand on his shoulder. Lovino cracked open his eyes, blinking groggily before feeling his hand and opening his mouth in what could only be in preparation for a shocked shout. But Gilbert quickly moved his hand from Lovino's shoulder, to his mouth. Lovino grumbled beneath the hand, his voice muffled, glaring.

"It's me," Gilbert whispered, and Lovino relaxed a bit, though his glare was just as fierce. "We need to talk. Outside?"

Lovino continued to glare at him and then sighed, nodding. Gilbert released his mouth and crawled out of the tent as Lovino tugged on a coat and then followed him out.

Gilbert was almost ashamed to look at Lovino, but he forced himself to. He had to resolve this. He had to make Lovino see how wrong it was, what happened between them.

"What the hell's going on?" he began, trying to keep his temper in check. "What was that back at the house? What about Toni? Don't you have a speck of loyalty in you?"

Lovino glared at him, and Gilbert stiffened. It looked like Lovino could punch him. "Loyalty? Loyalty? Who the fuck are you to talk to me about loyalty? You don't know anything about Toni and me! Nothing!"

Gilbert shushed him, and Lovino wanted to pound his face in. How could he not understand? "You don't know anything." Lovino repeated, though it was hard to keep his voice low. "You don't know what it's like to lose a lover. You think you do, but you don't. You don't know what it does to your mind. It's torture." His voice dropped as well as his gaze. "Torture. I thought about Toni every day after he died. Every fucking day. I thought about his face, his touch, his voice… and then I thought about the blood. How I saw his fucking brains smeared on the road, how I could have done something if I wouldn't have run. Sometimes I wonder why a goddamn coward like me was allowed to live and not Toni. Do you know how hard that is to live with?"

Gilbert was silent, speechless.

Lovino continued, "Soon it was just his death. I was seeing that shit every day, reliving it in my dreams. It haunted me, Gilbert. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Toni's dead face, and it ripped my fucking heart out. So you tell me why I did it. Fucking tell me why I wanted to sleep with you. Do you think I want to go on feeling the way I do about Toni and not being able to fucking touch him or talk to him or just see him? Do you think I like knowing that I could have saved him, that I could have at least fucking tried?"

Gilbert was at a loss for words. He didn't know, how could he know, he didn't—

"You want to forget him." he realized. "How could you? Toni fucking loved you! And you want to throw all your memories about him away like you never even knew him?"

This time, Lovino did punch him. Right in the nose. Blood poured down Gilbert's chin.

"You still don't fucking get it, do you, you goddamn bastard?!" Lovino's hissed voice seemed even more threatening than a shout. "He's fucking plaguing my mind. I can't just fucking sit around and grieve for him all the goddamn fucking time! I love him. Fuck, I love him. But his death is eating at my mind, and soon I'll go crazy… the only way to solve it, to fucking get rid of it, was to move on. And the only way I could do that was to fuck you."

Gilbert blinked in realization. "So… I'm a tool."

Lovino's fierce look suddenly disappeared. "No, you fucking helped me—"

"You don't have to explain." Gilbert cut him off, holding his bleeding nose. "I see how it fucking is. You want to get rid of your pain so badly that you're willing to give someone else grief. I see how it works." Gilbert began to walk back to his tent, furious.

"You don't fucking get it!" Lovino called after him. "You don't know what it's fucking like to have your heart ripped to pieces!"

Gilbert didn't turn back, only replied, "Ja, Lovino. I think I do."

He could feel Lovino's eyes on him as he disappeared into his tent.

Translations:

Je t'aime aussi-I love you, too

A Word From the Writer: So, lots of stuff going on here. Canada coping with the fact that France was raped and he hadn't been able to do anything to prevent it, Russia wanting to be closer to America (i.e. he wants buttsecks) but the events that unfolded and America's pride block the way, Prussia trying to interpret his feelings for Romano, Romano realizing he's an asshole (you know, a bigger one than before, especially since he's hurt another asshole), and England having doubts about his true relationship with France and... some freaky nightmares going on. All the good stuff summed up and these are bound to make for some good plot, I can tell you. I'm not gonna go in depth, but I will tell you to pay attention to England's dreams. I used Britannia and gore for a reason, and it's not just paranoia.

And Romano finally got up the courage to punch someone! Unfortunately for him it was really the wrong time. Poor guy. :'(