I have stolen Tardis. And punched the button to Era of Shitty Times for Everyone.

Warning: Angst, flashback, paranoia, FrUK, mention of RusAme, and... depressing stuff.

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

Parting the Curtains

Francis rolled over in his sleeping bag and reached out a hand, groping around. He wanted nothing more than to pull Arthur to him, to wrap his arms around him and hold him close for as long as he could keep him. But he couldn't find him, so he cracked open his eyes and saw that the Briton was absent from the entire tent.

"Arthur…?" he muttered and sat up, shivering as the cold air hit his bare skin and he pulled the sleeping bag up around him. He still couldn't believe that last night he had denied someone sex. Sex with him. He couldn't recall a time it had ever happened, but it had and it was just further proof that he loved Arthur dearly and would forgo his basic needs for him.

Because, really, sex was basic to him.

He threw on some clothes and reached up to feel the scar around his neck. His fingers were ice cold, and he hissed when he touched the thin film of skin stretching over the wound. He had found in the past couple of days that he had to refrain from moving his neck too much or else he would rip open the scab and it would bleed. And if anything, he didn't want to be fussed over. They couldn't afford to direct their attentions to anything but staying alive.

He crawled out of the tent flap and didn't look around for long before he saw Arthur sitting around the remnants of their fire, his legs drawn up with his arms wrapped snugly around him and his chin resting on his knees.

Francis quickly walked over to him and sat beside him. "What are you doing, cher? It's too cold to be sitting out here in just what you're wearing. You'll be sick. Come back in—"

"My hands are burning," Arthur admitted in a mutter so that Francis barely heard him.

Francis blinked. "Q-quoi?"

"I said my hands are burning," Arthur ground out and dug his fingers into his legs in frustration. "It's the fucking magic. I wasn't careful, and I used it to the point that it went beyond what I could control. So, it's burned me. And it's still burning." It had happened sometime during the night, and Arthur couldn't stand it, couldn't sleep. So he went outside and buried the burning appendages in the snow. Still, that barely helped. The fire felt like it was coming from within his flesh.

Francis took one of Arthur's bandaged hands into his own. When he felt the heat, his heart dropped. "I can feel it."

"It feels like my hands are on fire," Arthur huffed. "And they bloody itch as well."

Francis really didn't know what to say. He had never seen this before, so what was he supposed to say? Get some rest and maybe it will get better? Hell, he had barely done magic, who was he to say that Arthur's condition would improve? So he was silent.

Arthur clenched his hands until his knuckles were white, not caring if it made the burning hurt even worse. "Goddammit, I was so stupid. How did I ever think I could do that? Here I am telling Alfred not to rush into things and I'm sitting here with two useless hands. You might as well call them stumps, because that's all they're good for now."

Francis stiffened. "Now? Does that mean… for good?"

Arthur sighed, his eyes downcast, watching the ashes being carried off by the dry prairie winds. "No… magic is only energy. I conjured up too much of it and now it's trapped in my hands. I couldn't expend it all before I passed out. It was a lot of magic, too. By my estimate it may be weeks, but I'm not waiting that long. I refuse to be a bystander to everything because of this. My mistake shouldn't affect the well-being of this group."

I've given up so much for them. How long will it be before I have nothing left to give?

Francis had been so concerned about Arthur that he hadn't seen it had snowed during the night. At least five inches were piled up on the dry grass and scrub.

"Arthur, you need to dress warmer," Francis said, not knowing exactly how to respond to Arthur's rant.

That must have not been the right thing to say at the moment, because Arthur whipped his head around and snapped, "There you go, fawning over me. I won't have it! I'm not a child to be looked after!"

Before Francis could tell him otherwise, Arthur got up and marched back toward the tent, disappearing inside. Well, Francis reasoned. At least he won't catch a chill now.

He was going to go back inside himself to talk to Arthur. He was worried about the man. For as long as Francis knew him, Arthur absolutely loathed being helpless. He had taken great strides throughout his history to be prepared for anything. But now… who could have expected this?

He was halfway there when he heard a rustling and turned around to see a tousle-haired Matthew emerge from the tent he shared with Sadiq. There was something about the Canadian—his complexion, the little skip in his step, the way he looked around like they were in no danger at all—that made Francis smile.

"Bon matin, Mathieu. You are looking particularly happy this morning."

Matthew smiled back. "Just mulling over the fact that we're not all dead," he lied, and it was obvious. Well, at least to Francis it was. His smile turned into a leer and Matthew blushed. Yep, expect Francis to know what had taken place between him and Sadiq last night when the man was nowhere near his tent.

At least he hoped he hadn't been.

Luckily he didn't have to discuss it with Francis, because the man nodded to him and went back into his tent. Matthew frowned at this. Sure, it was convenient for Francis to disappear at the moment, but when something involving sex and Matthew came up, they almost always talked about it. Almost. Sometimes they got to it themselves.

Matthew was alarmed when he saw the snow on the ground. Winter was coming fast, and they needed to get off the plains. There was no sign of any animals whatsoever, and Matthew doubted they stuck around once the snow started to fall.

Look at us. Matthew thought. The most superior species on earth and we haven't a clue how to survive nature. How ironic.

Alfred, meanwhile, was not in the least bit cold. He was snuggled up against Ivan in the sleeping bag they shared, too content to move even though he knew they had set a standard for waking at dawn. He rolled over and looked up at Ivan, who seemed to still be sleeping, his eyes closed.

Alfred brushed his lips across his neck. "Mornin',"

Ivan opened one eye immediately. He had just been dozing. He had trained himself to hear and feel everything near him when he was asleep. He smiled at him, remembering all that had happened the previous night. "доброе утро, Alfred." Then he inhaled deeply and blinked. "It has snowed."

"What?" Alfred said incredulously. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"I am Russian," Ivan answered, though really he could smell snow. It was that damp, icy smell that was carried on the wind. It reminded him of home… and of all the horrible things that would have happened there since. Did Russia still exist? No. He knew it didn't. He was a mortal now. No one considered him a country except for the other nations and himself, but ultimately it was the citizens who decided if he was worthy of the title. It was like that with everyone, and they were just lying to themselves for the sake of forgetting their troubles.

Alfred kissed him on the lips this time and sat up, only to quickly slide back into the sleeping bag when the frigid air hit his skin. Ivan chuckled and got up, reaching over and tossing Alfred's clothes to him. The American caught them and hastily set to putting them on.

"Jesus Christ," Alfred muttered. "I hate saying it, but those commie hats and coats are looking pretty damn warm right now."

Ivan huffed. "Stop whining. The snow has barely started falling. We are lucky that we do not have General Winter hunting us."

"Oh yeah?" Alfred said. "Does your General Winter have a daughter? Because she's a bitch."

Ivan laughed. "Perhaps."

Alfred was shivering by the time they got outside, but he tried to ignore it. Usually he stayed in during the cold-ass winter months. He remembered the coldest winter he had endured on record: the year 1936. He had journeyed out to the Midwest to visit the farming states who had been severely affected by the Depression and the Dust Bowl. As if it wasn't bad enough that crop yields were low, a vicious cold wave had blanketed the entire country and Alfred was forced to wait it out in Minnesota with his daughter. Electricity hadn't yet been established in the rural, agricultural areas of the country and (lucky him) Minnesota just so happened not to be one of those states. They had spent their days sitting mere inches from the fire, and whenever Alfred or Minnie went out to collect more firewood, they would be as stiff as a board by the time they came back inside and it took them hours to fully thaw out. February—trapped inside by snow drifts as tall as a man with a -100 degree Fahrenheit wind chill seeping through their heavily-burdened windows. So it was only understandable that whenever proper heating systems had been installed across the country, Alfred took avid advantage. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that this year wouldn't be far off from that dreadful February in 1936.

The thought unnerved him and he shivered more, pulling his coat further around himself. He watched Ivan with envy as the man walked around without the slightest twitch, even smiling as if in welcome at the snow.

Weird-ass commie and his backwards ways. Alfred supposed that the vast differences between them were what made the Russian attractive to him, and he was grateful for that.

He was surprised when he saw Ludwig standing in the center of the camp instead of Arthur. He was so used to seeing the Briton chattering away about the plans for the day that the sight was almost startling. Alfred looked around, barely hearing what Ludwig was saying, and saw that Arthur was not among the group. Francis was, however, and looking none too happy.

Without any regard to Ludwig, Alfred turned on his heel and headed for Arthur's tent. Ivan caught him by the shoulder.

"Where are you going? It is rude to leave when being given instructions."

"Artie," Alfred replied simply and shrugged his hand off.

Ivan watched him leave and rolled his eyes. "непочтительный американский,"

Alfred ignored what he thought to be an insult and ducked inside the tent. There he found Arthur, sitting cross-legged, back to the entrance, staring at the sloping wall of blue nylon.

"Artie?" Alfred said, a bit concerned. Normally Arthur would have turned at the sound of the tent flap opening and closing—he was that alert nowadays. But now there was something… off.

"Artie?" He sat down beside Arthur. "Igs? You okay?"

Arthur didn't turn to look at him, didn't even blink. "Look at what this madness has done to us, Alfred. So distracted by the big picture that it's the small things that will kill us."

And just like that, Alfred was taken back in time.

Alfred held a handkerchief over his mouth and coughed a couple of times, disgusted when he heard the liquid in his lungs rattle up his throat. He swallowed and struggled not to throw up as he knocked on the door. Arthur's voice drifted through the oak.

"C-come in,"

Arthur was hacking and cleared his throat several times before he was able to greet Alfred when he walked in and shut the door behind him. When Arthur saw him, he scowled.

"What are you doing here? I told you to stay away."

"I'm sick," Alfred said, sniffing. "And you are, too."

Arthur turned back to the window he was looking out of, watching the planes take off from the nearby base. "You should still be at home. From what I hear you have a considerable amount of people sick as well."

"I wanted to see you," Alfred admitted, setting down his things… wherever. He knew Arthur hated it, but he was too tired and achy to bother with putting them away properly. He walked over to Arthur and examined him. "You look awful pale. You should be in bed."

Arthur's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, a plane zooming overhead, making the whole building rumble with its ascent. "I can't stay in bed, America. There's a war going on, if you haven't noticed. And I'm in the thick of it."

Alfred huffed. He knew he should have stayed out of it like everyone told him, but he couldn't just sit around and watch Arthur dive in—that and he wanted to show Alejandro down south that no matter if he joined Ludwig, he wouldn't get his lands back. The message had infuriated Alfred (1). Texas and everything else weren't stolen, they were won and won good and fair. He had even paid Alejandro for them. So much for playing the nice card. Well, then again, maybe it hadn't been wise to intervene in that fight for authority the Mexican had been having…

Alfred would have insisted that Arthur rest—he did look exhausted and gaunt—but he knew it was no use, and he didn't want to further tire the Briton out by engaging in an argument he knew he would lose. He sighed. "I saw Mattie before I left."

Arthur looked at him. "Is he ill?"

Alfred nodded. "Not as much as us, but he still needs to take it easy. He wanted to visit France, but I told him not to come over here."

"That's just as well," Arthur said, redirecting his gaze back to the window. "He must be worried, the poor lad. The frog is way too close to Germany for comfort. Let's hope the bastard catches some of it himself…" He paused and said, with slight hesitation, "How is old froggy doing anyway? You docked in France, right?"

Before this whole war shit, Alfred would have made some dirty comment but he was too down to even try. "He's sick. Very. Worse than you."

"And you?"

Alfred swallowed. Arthur turned to look at him.

"Don't you try to hide shit from me again, America, I know when you are."

"I-I don't know," Alfred admitted, feeling defeated. "I'm trying my best, but I don't know what it is. They say it's pneumonia, but the medicine for that isn't working and the symptoms aren't the same. It's bad enough that this war is going on, but now nature has to fuck us where it hurts."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I asked how you were doing, not if you had found out what this was or not."

Alfred blinked and licked his lips. "Fine. I'm doing… fine. But don't worry about me. Shit's going down over here and you need to focus on that. I'm here to help."

"Well, it's nice to see you come out of your ignorant little bubble for once," Arthur growled coldly and coughed some more. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was mussed; he gave no indication of his knack for always looking professional and presentable. It worried Alfred a lot.

"You know I can't stay out of a war when you ask me for help."

Arthur rounded on him. "I-I wasn't asking for help!" Then he went into a coughing fit. When he finished, he looked miserable and plagued with fatigue. "Look at what this madness has done to us, Alfred. So distracted by the big picture that it's the small things that will kill us."

Alfred's breath caught. "We're not gonna die, Artie. We can't—we're nations." I'm the hero…

Arthur shook his head. "With the war claiming soldiers and the illness claiming those at home, who will we have left to call us nations?"

Alfred could see it now, the sadness in Arthur's eyes. They both knew the war was near its end, but Arthur could see no end until this mystery contagion was solved. And after going through so much—much more than Alfred could ever imagine—it was starting to wear on the Briton.

Alfred pulled Arthur to him and hugged him. Arthur squirmed and snapped, "Let go, I'm sick!"

"Artie," Alfred said and held him regardless. "Artie, stop."

Arthur gave a growl of frustration and stopped thrashing. "America—"

Alfred didn't answer. Just held him. Made sure he was still and safe.

Then Arthur slumped and said, "It's over. It's almost over. We're so close. And then it will be done. Everything, all this shit… and we can move on. I just want it to be over. I'm so tired…"

"It'll be over, Artie," Alfred assured him. "It has to end sometime. Everything has to end."

It did end, but not the Spanish flu. That's what they called it before they figured out it was a mutated form of avian flu that had jumped from chickens to humans. And it didn't even come from Spain; it had come from American troops, most of which were made up of farmers from the Midwest. When Alfred agreed to help, he had brought the illness with him. He remembered feeling guilty about it, but he figured karma caught up with him when he himself became sick.

Maybe Arthur was not far off in his words. Everyone expected a war—no one expected disease. The First World War claimed over thirty-seven million lives… the flu took close to one-hundred million. There was no warning; the war had been a very dangerous distraction. Before anyone knew it, the illness was upon them, circulating through the civilians and the troops. The time was one of the few things burned into Alfred's forever memory and its lesson had left the greatest mark: the big picture, while glorious and grand, was but a decorative shade pulled over a great window—a blood-red window, cracked and chipped and gradually being worn away. And they would all sit and look at that splendid, curtained window and not notice until too late, not until the winds changed directions and stirred the hangings, that it was not so pretty and flawless after all. They had to be careful this time, no one could make mistakes. They couldn't afford to be caught in an illusion. They couldn't afford to believe that their plan was perfect.

He thought about what he had said back then. Everything has to end. Well, wasn't he right? Everything had ended. Maybe not the world, but the world according to society. It had started so long ago; Alfred couldn't even remember how now. Would the Uprising end? Or would it stop for a decade or so and resume like the World Wars?

Or was it something else entirely?

Regardless, Alfred couldn't allow Arthur to cut himself off from everyone. They needed Arthur—and if they didn't admit that, then Alfred would. He had almost lost Arthur once, and he sure as hell wasn't going to lose him when he was right there beside him, breathing, speaking, alive. It would be more upsetting to see Arthur give up rather than see him die. If he died, at least he would die fighting. But now…

Alfred wanted to hold him like that one time long ago, but something about Arthur made him hold back. This wasn't the same exhausted, but determined British Empire. This was a man grappling with the fact that his greatest strength had almost killed him and those he had charged himself with looking after.

So he did the next best thing that came to his mind.

He said, "We're not gonna die, Artie. We can't—we're nations."

Arthur snorted, recalling faintly their past conversation. "No, we're not. Not anymore."

"Who says?" Alfred asked. "People? People are subject to deception and misguidance all the time. Sure, we may be mortals now, but that doesn't mean our job as nations is over. We were born to lead. As long as we have that strength, nothing can stop us."

Arthur scoffed. There went Alfred again, being the voice of 'reason' and rash determination, spewing his idiotic mantra of herosim. He hated that Alfred, of all people, could do this to him—convince him that he was strong. The one who had seen him weak… it seemed strangely ironic.

So Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled. "It will end. But I can no longer trust myself to lead—for now. Until I have enough mind to control my powers I will step down. I feel it is too dangerous to my well-being as well as others if I take up a position of authority without proper management of my own functions."

Alfred blinked in surprise. He couldn't imagine how the group would even function without Arthur at the wheel. It certainly was weird… normally Alfred thought himself was the leader in every situation. But he knew… somehow, Alfred knew that he wasn't ready. Not yet. The murder of that man over Marge was still swimming freshly in his mind. What he'd done had been savage, barbaric… he could not afford to revert to that state again, but who knew if or when it would happen again?

Alfred swallowed. "Who, then?"

Arthur looked at him, and now Alfred could see truly how tired he was. Dark smudges were under his eyes and he looked gaunt, sickly—not very different from when he was sick during the war. "Not…?" He was surprised that Alfred hadn't suggested himself, which would of course certainly not prove ideal.

Alfred knew what the question meant. "Nah. I'm buying time until we reach the capital."

Arthur stared and knew Alfred was lying. The git was always bad at hiding it. He had this habit of looking down and to the left, wringing his hands and breathing heavily through his nose. It really was obvious. Surprise overwhelmed suspicion, though. Alfred loved to lead. Had the Uprising changed him? Arthur didn't know if he was proud or worried for his ex-colony, but he had a feeling he would find out before long.

Arthur's mind then went to choosing who would take his place. Everyone had their faults and assets, but then again why was it up to Arthur to decide? Sure, no one had voted for him to take the lead, but the instinct was so deeply rooted inside him that he hadn't even known it was in himself. Was it fair, then, to decide the fate of the group?

Arthur could hear Ludwig's voice floating to the tent, and then he knew. Ludwig. Immediately after it had been clear that Arthur was unfit for authority, he had taken it upon himself to make sure the group was advised and directed. No one had wondered, no one had asked, no one had voted… he was just there. And no one was protesting, the sound of feet scattering about them as the group dispersed to pack up the tents under Ludwig's direction a sign of acceptance.

It would be a gamble, it might not work, and Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about Ludwig's history of unstable leadership, but it was worth a shot.

Alfred looked at him and he heard it also. "Ludwig?"

Arthur nodded. "You think it's right?" Why the hell am I even asking the twit?

Alfred looked at him with that lopsided smile. "Artie, you almost died saving us. I'm sure your pick would be the best one."

And Arthur could finally breathe.

Alfred seemed to relax as well. He nodded to Arthur's hands. "When're those gonna heal?"

"Not for some time, I'm afraid," Arthur replied, and Alfred wanted to kick himself in the ass for bringing it up again. "Magic leaves an imprint on everything it touches or manipulates. It may not be clear to the average eye, but to magic users they glow as bright as a lantern. Most of the time, if it's used properly, magic is harmless. But if it extends beyond the energy someone can afford to supply…" He sighed. "the imprint becomes considerably more noticeable."

"They'll go away though, right?" Alfred asked hopefully. "Eventually?"

"I honestly don't know, Alfred. But if they stay, that doesn't mean I won't do my part."

Alfred was about to say that he should get some rest (he had had a very stressful night, after all), but thought better and shut his mouth. Nobody told the former British Empire to take it easy without getting a good clout to the head and a lecture on the consequences of languidness.

Arthur looked over and caught Alfred smiling at him. "What?"

"Nothin', workaholic," Alfred jeered in a friendly way before standing. "C'mon. We better get out there and help before Ludwig starts barking at us."

"I suppose," Arthur agreed and stood. True, he couldn't help with his hands, but he could try his best to find other ways to contribute.

Alfred left the tent before him, which meant Arthur could see the more-than-obvious limp he was sporting. Arthur snorted.

"I would watch your walk," Arthur muttered, coming up beside him. "But I wouldn't say that I was the only one that heard you last night."

Alfred froze, mid-step, blushing. "Y-you heard, huh?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You've always been quite the loudmouth. And I just want you to know that I'm…" Arthur cleared his throat loudly. "happyforyouAHEM."

It took a moment for Alfred to translate, and he got that goofy smile on his face again. He was opening his mouth to respond, when Arthur snapped, "Just pay mind to keep your voice in check next time round. Some people need their sleep." And the Briton marched off without another word, not looking back. He arrived at the tent he shared with Francis, and the Frenchman threw him a glance over his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows. Arthur squashed the man's foot with his heel until Francis yipped and moved away from him, still leering, knowing full well what Arthur and Alfred had been talking about because he hadn't been able to sleep until the noises were over either.

"Get back to work, frog. The sun's rising, and we need to be off."

Francis smiled. "Aye, mon capitaine charmant."

Arthur frowned at him until he turned around and proceeded to roll up the tent, then smiled to himself.

Perhaps, in time, Alfred would be happy for him as well.

Translations:

доброе утро-Good morning

непочтительный американский-Irreverent American

capitaine charmant-charming captain

References:

(1) Referring to the Zimmerman Telegram.

A Word From the Writer: So, yeah, just some historical geekiness going on here. I just had to include the thing about the Spanish flu, c'mon, folks. It was drama, and I was like, "Imma use this to make more drama and symbolism, yeah!" And, yes, that's really how my brain works. The part about the drama and gore not about the porn. The porn part is usually stronger. So everyone was sick as hell, people died, everyone had an overall shitty time, end of flashback. Though I do want to note that it has only been suspected (not confirmed) that the avian flu that led to the 1918 outbreak originated in the Midwestern U.S. So, America's all like, "I'll help!" and then everyone gets sick, then he blames it on Spain (or anyone else but him, really). Sounds legit. At least I'm not sick anymore, but my sister is, hehe. Karma's a bitch. And Russia and America were loud. I always imagine all of their romps look more like something you'd see on National Geographic rather than some random porn site that takes you a gagillion places before finally reaching the video you wanted and then asking you to pay up. Like, wtf, man. Have you no sympathy for poor-ass horny bastards?

Hehe, Imma get a virus, I just know it. But it'll be worth it. Kinda. :/

It's all Japan's fault! You and your porn. o_e

Ahem, onward!