Beware the calm of comic relief.

Warning: Angst (mostly England), disturbing images, FrUK, weapons.

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

If Tomorrow Never Comes…

They reached the stream within the hour, but Arthur was only mildly pleased. Gilbert's words were still fresh in his mind. Should Arthur really be leading the group when he was unstable? Well, sure, he hadn't had any nightmares or any visions or bouts of anger lately and he was sure he'd gotten rid of whatever it was that was bothering him, but he didn't want to come across as a tyrant. He knew well enough what could happen if he acted like that.

Was he the one tearing the group apart?

"Hey, Arthur!" Francis called, dropping his discarded sweater on the ground next to his pants. "Come on, cher, let's go swimming~!" He hooked his thumbs into his underwear.

"Keep your knickers on, frog!"

Francis smirked. "Who's going to stop me~?"

"No, you don't!" Arthur leapt to his feet and chased Francis around for a bit, Francis laughing hysterically, until the Frenchman ran into the stream and sat down in the water. Arthur didn't follow him, smirking when Francis yelped and sprang to his feet.

"Ah! It's cold!"

"Hey!" Yao snapped, taking his canteen from the stream a few feet away. "At least let us get water first before you contaminate it!"

"Ohon, what, cher?" Francis leered. "You don't want a taste of me?" When Yao opened his mouth to retort, Francis splashed him with the freezing water.

Arthur wished he could join in with the frivolous activities but he felt… drained. He wanted nothing else but to rest, but he knew he had to keep going, stay strong, for the group. He sighed and pulled off his own shirt, his pants following after. Alfred wolf-whistled and Arthur flipped him off.

He stepped into the stream, and an icy chill crawled up his legs. He crouched (hell, he certainly wasn't making the mistake of sitting) and glanced over at Francis. His breath still caught with the wounds he saw on him.

"Do they hurt?" Arthur asked under his breath, scooping up some water and pouring it over his arm, watching the dirt wash off.

"No," Francis replied, though Arthur knew he was lying.

He was about to voice it, when a fountain of freezing water was poured over his head. He yelped and sputtered, moving away and looking up to see Alfred grinning down at him, overturned canteen in hand.

"Thought Francis would like seeing you soaked." Alfred laughed.

"Ouais, merci, Alfred." Francis leered.

Arthur flushed. "You little sod—!"

"Oh, Alfred~" Alfred turned around to see Ivan standing and smiling before him. "I found something in the stream that I thought you would like."

"Cool. What is i—AH!" Alfred pushed Ivan away, but not before the man dropped a crayfish down Alfred's shorts.

Everyone jeered and laughed as Alfred danced around, trying to get the thing out of his underwear. The poor creature dropped out not half a minute later, splashing into the water and promptly scuttling away.

Alfred stopped jumping around and bent over, hands on his knees to catch his breath. He had been close to taking his underwear off. He glared at Ivan, who was laughing so hard, tears were escaping his eyes. "You asshole. What woulda happened if that thing had clipped one of my balls, huh?"

"Then we'd answer the question of which ball you would keep." Arthur said, remembering their ridiculous conversation in the airport terminal so very long ago, and everyone broke out laughing again.

They all eventually finished bathing (though it took a little coaxing for Kiku to actually take anything off, and it didn't help that Francis was laughing pervertedly the whole time) and got dressed. They searched a bit for the crayfish (as it may have made a good meal), but they didn't find it and most really didn't want to eat anything that had taken a trip through Alfred's underwear anyway.

And they once again began their journey. It was almost ritual now. Sleep, get up, eat, walk, eat some more, walk, find a camp, set up the tents, eat, sleep. If only they could add the talking part in, then it would be a little better. Though Arthur didn't exactly know if 'better' was the word for the situation they were in. Maybe 'more tolerable.'

Wynston had been right. The land was all grass and shrub. Behind them, mountains stretched up to meet the sky, and throughout the day they were gradually growing smaller on the horizon. Arthur didn't like it. The flatter the land got, the more he felt like they were heading into a wasteland that went on forever. And the more he wasn't sure that they were all going to make it out alive.

Despite their situation, Arthur was in relatively high spirits. They were away from civilization. They had food. They had ammo. Now all they needed was a miracle.

Why does winter have to come now?

Arthur looked up at the sky. Slate gray. It was only a matter of time before snow fell, and then he didn't know what they would do. He only hoped going with Alfred's plan to cut across the Midwest and Northeast to reach the capital wouldn't end up being the death of them.

Then Arthur's body went cold. He knew he shouldn't, but he lowered his eyes.

And right there, right there, standing only a few yards away, was the same shadowy form that had plagued Arthur's mind. He didn't stop to stare this time; he kept going, unnerved that it was a great deal closer than the last time he had seen it. He begged for it not to turn around. He didn't think he could bear seeing Britannia in such a demonic state. He begged for it not to be what he thought it was. Maybe it was an animal? But no one else was looking.

Whatever it was that was in him wasn't gone.

He didn't notice anyone around him. He became numb to the world, and that scared him. He wanted to pull his eyes away, to keep walking with his head down, but his eyes were locked in place and he couldn't move. And then it turned around.

She was radiant, his mother. Simply glowing with life and beauty. He fought to keep his mental defenses up; it was so hard not to reminisce in the memories of his childhood with her. He forced himself not to smile. Don't crack, don't crack. He chanted a poem that focused him inside his head, something that his mother had taught him to block his mind to whatever malicious force was trying to control it:

The songs are sweet that sirens sing,

The sweetest ever heard,

But those who listen die cruel deaths,

And dead men say no words

Over and over, he said this in his mind, but the image of Britannia would not go away. She was smiling at him, mocking him with her closeness, her real-ness. But he would not break, not now, not when he had gotten this far, this sane. He hadn't spent hundreds of years mastering magic just to have his brain claimed by any random force.

The songs are sweet that sirens sing,

The sweetest ever heard,

But those who listen die cruel deaths,

But those who listen die cruel deaths...

The words were lost to him as he watched Britannia's hand disappear inside of her white robes. And there was a glint of metal as she pulled out a gun, aiming it right at him. She cocked it, still smiling, still Britannia, the only mother Arthur had ever known, and now she pulled the trigger, the blast of the gunshot echoing through Arthur. He felt the sound, as if it were real. Britannia, his mother, wanted to kill him…

No, Arthur told himself firmly. It can't be her, it's just a vision, it's—

"The Organization!" Ludwig yelled, and Arthur snapped out of his daze. The group was reeling and rushing all around him, crying out, and the sound of gunshots assaulted his eardrums…

Only when a bullet split through the air just inches from his face did Arthur realize Shit, they found us!

"Artie!" Alfred ran up to him and snatched up his arm. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Run!"

Alfred took off and Arthur followed him, not daring to look back. He could hear shouts from the men a little ways off, but all around him the ground was smoking and pitted with bullets. Everything was a blur; he was so focused on running that he barely noticed who was running with him. He willed his legs to keep moving, but there was really no place to hide. The land was riddled with hills. That was a start.

Arthur began looking for a place to take cover (because he was rapidly running out of energy) when he noticed that no one was in front of him. He slowed, longing to look back. He hissed as a bullet grazed his cheek, blood welling and dripping down his face, and he started running at full speed again. His pack was slowing him down, but he couldn't drop it. What if he got away? What if he needed the supplies for later on?

Just as he was thinking how impossible escaping sounded, his foot caught in a dip in the ground and he was falling, plummeting to the earth. He hit the dirt with a thud that knocked the breath out of him, and he quickly scrambled into the long grass…

Wait. Long grass!

It was everywhere, stretching for a good mile at least, and Arthur thanked God for it. He kept himself flat to the ground and continued to crawl along, wanting to get as deep into the grass as possible.

He could hear the men's feet trod on the grass, and Arthur hurried as far away as he could. A couple of them growled in frustration. They neared him, and Arthur stopped moving, stopped breathing. They approached him, guns ready… and then walked past.

They stopped, and one shouted, "Fucking cowards! We'll get you. You can't stay hidden forever in this field!"

And they walked back past Arthur. He heard the men conversing, and from the sound of it, there were at least ten of them.

"What the hell are we going to do now?"

"Can't believe those rats got away!"

"Calm down, everyone." And everyone went quiet. It was clear that this man was the leader. "All right, then. We make camp here. I will assign a couple of guys to take shifts skirting all four corners of this field every hour, on the hour."

"Why don't we just light the shit on fire and smoke 'em out?"

"Because, dumbass, more than the field would be on fire. The grass is dry this time of year. Do you wanna light up the whole prairie?"

"No…"

"Then shut up and do what I say."

The men were not in the field anymore. Arthur could hear them setting up camp close by. He decided to move while they were occupied. As he crawled blindly through the tall, dry grass, he began to wonder who else made it into the field alive.

Dammit, Alfred, you'd better not have been a hero…

Francis was making his way through the grass without any idea where he was going. What if he was alone? What if he was the only survivor?

His mind was so busy trying to come up with scenarios, that he didn't hear the crunching of the grass nearing his position.

He stopped dead just before an elbow came into view and his blood turned to ice.

He couldn't move. If he did, he would surely be noticed. He couldn't hear the men or where they went. For all he knew they could be crawling through the grass after him.

But he wasn't going down without a fight. He wouldn't be overpowered like last time.

So he laid there on his stomach, ready to grab hold of the person when they came into view and wrestle for his life. He couldn't let the man see him, though. Francis kind of needed a bit of an advantage in this situation. So, as soon as the man's whole arm came into view, he launched himself forward.

There were plenty of 'oof's and 'ow's and 'what the fuck's before the stranger rolled them over, pulling Francis's hair.

It's going to happen again. Francis thought, his stomach churning. He squinted his eyes shut, and then he heard, "Francis…?"

He opened his eyes and stared right into the face of a very breathless Arthur. Francis gave a sigh of relief, and the Briton let go of his hair, scrambling off of him.

"Thank God I found you." Arthur panted. He didn't realize how sweaty he was, how hard his heart was pounding, until he lay on his back and took time to rest.

"Are you shot?" Francis asked, hands moving over him, searching for blood.

Arthur didn't have the energy to bat away his wandering hands. "No… no, just nicked on the cheek."

Francis grabbed Arthur's hand and squeezed it. "Have you seen the others?"

"No,"

"Do you know if anyone else is alive?"

Arthur swallowed dryly, his heart starting up a frantic tattoo in his chest again. "No,"

Francis buried his face in Arthur's chest. "We should have seen them coming… we should have paid better attention… merde…"

They lay there for a few minutes, catching their breaths, trying to calm themselves, staring at the gray sky.

"I hope it doesn't rain." Arthur said with worry. "We could freeze."

"Don't say it and it will not happen." Francis breathed, raising himself up on his elbows to look at him. "We need to keep looking."

Arthur nodded and rolled over, kissing Francis on the cheek. Francis blushed. "W-what was that for, cher?"

"In case we don't make it." Arthur replied, diving into the grass.

Translations:

merde-shit

A Word From the Writer: Whoo, it feels like it's been forever since I've posted! School has started again for me, so I'm a little drained right now. This is also my senior year and may be the last year I'll be able to freely write and update weekly. I hope it doesn't come to that because I live and breathe fanfiction, but this is just a heads up for everyone in case that happens. It's not like I'll stop writing, though. I'll always be a writer and I'll always have a special place in my heart for Hetalia.

Annnyway, enough depressing shit. The Organization is on their heels more so than our boys thought. Have all of them made it into the grass? Well, that's up to my wicked little mind.