I just had to include my favorite animal.

Warning: Angst, paranoia, Nichu, fluffy stuffs, FrUK, a little smut.

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

No Longer the Hunters

The clouds never broke and the snow began to fall around noon. Ivan looked up at the sky and the snowflakes dancing down, smiling softly. He never knew how much he would miss the snow. It reminded him of home.

But everyone else was surely disgruntled about it. On top of everything that had happened, it would figure that an early snowstorm would roll in and inhibit their progress. Yet they continued to push on, their faces frozen to numbness and their muscles stiff with the cold. Only when Francis's legs gave out and he fell to his knees did anyone stop.

Matthew was rushing over to him immediately. "Papa, are you tired?"

Francis took Matthew's helping hand and struggled to his feet—only to nearly fall again. Matthew caught him and by now everyone was gathering around.

"I'm fine," Francis assured, but he was lying through his teeth. Arthur knew it.

"It's what they did to you, isn't it?" Arthur hated bringing the subject up, but he needed to know.

Francis looked at him long and hard before sighing. "Oui… I thought the soreness would go away, but it seems like they did more damage than I thought."

Arthur immediately felt guilty. Guilty that he had contributed to that pain, that he had given in to Francis's pleas even when he knew it would only make it worse.

"There's a copse of trees up ahead," Ludwig said, motioning to them. "They might help buffer the wind. We can make camp there."

And they set off, Yao looking over his shoulder. It seemed like they had not traveled far, but judging by the distance of the plateaus and various rock formations behind them, they must have gone at least thirty miles. Not their best record, but then again the snow was hindering them and they needed a break. He glanced at Kiku.

What was the man thinking? His expression was always blank. Though Yao loved Kiku with all his heart, he hated that part of him. He never knew how Kiku was feeling, what his thoughts were, and that was worrying. For all he knew Kiku could be on the edge of collapse and he looked perfectly fine.

Yao knew it was hard for Kiku, being this close to someone. The Japanese had never opened up to anyone, not even when he had opened up his country. Oh sure, he made people think they knew him, but Yao knew better. Yao knew Kiku, and there was no denying that Kiku loved and feared him for that reason. If only Yao could convince Kiku that he could trust him then maybe they could make this work. He saw how Kiku was after their loving: red-faced, meek, and aloof. Kiku's demureness made him incredibly cute, but now it was forming a wall between them. After sex—an act which should naturally prompt openness for its breaking down of barriers—Kiku barely wanted to talk, and he would much rather turn over and sleep than converse with Yao. It hurt Yao, but he knew the reason behind it. He knew Kiku.

He would have to go slow, though it didn't seem like the ideal move with everything going so fast. He had to if he wished to make any progress. And he already had a plan.

Coming up beside Kiku, Yao took the smaller man's hand in his. Kiku flinched and looked at him with those big, brown eyes, lips parting to say something.

"I love you, yīnghuā." Yao muttered and softly kissed Kiku's cheek. He could feel the heat rising to it when he moved away, letting go of Kiku's hand and going back to walking silently beside him.

Kiku blinked at him, but Yao just kept staring forward. What was he getting at, grabbing him like that and doing something so… intimate among others? Kiku was blushing like mad, but at least the heat warmed his face.

They arrived at the copse just in time. The snow had picked up as well as the wind, whipping the chilled flakes into their faces. They all decided it was futile to attempt to pitch tents, so they quickly settled down with their backs to the wind, wrapping their sleeping bags around each other and huddling close as Gilbert tried to start a fire.

"Damn… fucking… lighter," Gilbert growled as his thumb began to get abrasions from running over the spark wheel.

After a few more minutes of fruitless effort, Ludwig huffed and snatched the lighter out of Gilbert's hand.

"Hey!"

"This is useless," he told him, tossing the lighter into a small snowdrift just outside of the tree line.

Matthew was a bit hesitant at first, but he dug through his pockets and gave Gilbert his lighter. "Here. I think it's the last one…eh."

Francis frowned at him, Matthew shrugged, and Gilbert lit the small pile of dry tinder they had managed to find among the leaf litter.

"This whole 'cutting straight through' shit will freeze my fucking balls off before the end," Lovino grumbled, pulling his sleeping bag further around himself.

"Well I certainly hope not," Gilbert teased, and when Lovino gave him a glare, he quickly added, "I can just imagine how pleasant you would be, kesesese."

"It is just snow," Ivan said. He was the only one whose sleeping bag was piled in his lap instead of wrapped around his shoulders. "You get used to it after a while."

"We don't have a while," Sadiq said. "If this is just autumn, we're screwed."

"I don't care," Alfred snapped, though he was quickly beginning to loathe his decision. "I want those bastard's asses as a Christmas present."

Ludwig was about to tell them to stop complaining when a ghostly howl made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

"Aaaaaoooooooooo."

Everyone stiffened.

"Aaaooooaaaoooooooo."

Ivan smiled. "The first wolf of winter is always the hungriest~"

Alfred nudged him sharply in the ribs. "Shut up."

"Ve, what does it want?" Feliciano asked, drawing closer to Ludwig.

"It's a rallying howl," Matthew answered. "The alpha is calling the pack to the hunt."

Arthur frowned. "But I thought… wolves go where their prey are?"

"They do."

"But there are no animals here. They've all gone south."

"AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOAAAOOOOOOO."

Matthew's heart began to pound. "We haven't gone south."

Alfred's eyes widened and he swallowed. "Oh shit."

"Stop blowing it out of proportion," Arthur chided, though he shifted uneasily where he sat. "I'm sure they're just tracking some lame herd animal. We have nothing to worry about."

"Some of us are lame," Sadiq murmured and everyone was quiet for a moment.

"They will not dare attack us," Ivan assured. "if they know the cruelty of men. Though since they have chosen not to leave with the herds, they will follow us. It seems we have picked up some furred vultures."

"That will help me sleep at night," Gilbert scowled and he looked over his shoulder.

"The day grows dark," Ludwig said, looking at Ivan. "Your magic might be useful in this situation."

Ivan nodded and stood. He turned his back to them and inhaled deeply. He blew out, and ice crystals formed out of his breath. Within a few minutes, he constructed a wall of ice six feet high. Afterward, panting, he sat heavily down.

"I still have not regained the energy I spent fighting Agramon," he explained. "I'm afraid I will not be able to construct another wall after this."

The wolves howled once more before the clouds grew a deep indigo and then all was silent. The cold was making them numb, and yet they remained seated in a tight little circle around the fire, moving ever closer as day turned to night. No one spoke. They were all too cold and miserable to. No one moved. No one would admit that the prospect of the wolves following them was starkly frightening and that the fire was indeed their only protection by way of light and warmth.

And why were they afraid? They were just wolves.

Just wolves, Francis mused. A mistake made before. The first howl had brought memories to the forefront of his mind—bad memories that should rightfully be buried.

That vicious pack of wolves that entered Paris in 1450, killing all of forty before they were slain before Notre Dame. The Wolves of Soissons that attacked eighteen people, killing four in 1765. And barely a year after that the Wolves of Périgord—the pack of four that left eighteen people dead in their wake, but were eventually shot themselves. The female's head was brought to the king to reap payment for the elimination of the wolf, and Francis, curious, had peered inside the bloody mouth, seeing two rows of teeth lining her bottom jaw. Flesh still clung in strips to the fangs.

Francis shivered and moved closer to Arthur. The Briton noticed but only offered him a glance before staring once again myopically at the fire. During that time in 1450, Francis had been there. He had seen the wolves rip the throat out of a woman trying to get away. Everyone had thought the walls of Paris were well fortified against such beasts of the outside. And they had been mistaken. Sorely mistaken. Just as Francis had been mistaken that the political walls of his government would offer enough stability to keep similar wolves from breaching them.

When he finally did go to bed (taking leave after Arthur), Francis was still plagued with the thoughts. After all of their struggles, after all the hell they'd been through, they could not let themselves become prey to wolves. They had too much yet to accomplish.

Mère Nature always has her way, Francis thought as he settled down on his sleeping bag.

And mercy is not one of her virtues.

Arthur looked over at him worriedly. "Francis, you don't look so… well."

"You do not either, cher."

"You know what I mean."

Francis sighed. "Why does everything have to be against us?"

Arthur shook his head. "Nature never takes sides."

"Je sais," Francis replied, looking down at Arthur's bandaged hands. "How are you?"

Arthur caught Francis's staring and hid them. "Well enough. I'll get along. Minor burns aren't anything to me."

Francis gave him a skeptical look. "You think that after all the years of knowing you I still cannot tell when you are lying?"

"I'm not lying," Arthur told him firmly. "These burns won't hold me back."

"That is not the lie I was talking about."

Arthur stared at him for a moment then looked at the ground. "They will heal on their own. The rest of the world won't." Before Francis could respond, Arthur grabbed the hem of his own sweater and tried to pull it off. He screwed up his face in pain, though it was obvious he was trying to hide it.

"Let me, amour." Francis said, taking the sweater in his own hands. Arthur let go of it and watched him. When the garment was off and they met eyes, Francis said, "Le feu ne peut pas tuer un incendie." He ran his fingers down Arthur's chest, his stomach, his hips. "But even fire is harmed by the cold. You will be sick."

Arthur smiled. "Don't you remember? Sleeping naked preserves body heat. Or were your soldiers not told that?"

Francis smirked and undressed himself before finishing off the rest of Arthur's clothes. "Honhon, there was no need to tell them. It was instinct to them." He pulled Arthur to him so that their skin touched. The Briton shivered, though from the cold or the close contact Francis couldn't tell. "But it should be instinct to be close to you in this way, non?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You never stop being a frog, do you?"

Francis shrugged. "I cannot help it. It is in my nature." Then he added with a smile, "And you are too beautiful for me not to be."

Arthur scoffed but blushed noticeably. "Whatever. Get your arse into the sleeping bag before we really do freeze our bollocks off."

Francis lifted the sleeping bag. "You first, mon chéri."

And then they were both laying skin-to-skin, warmer than they had been all day. Francis took Arthur's hands in his. "They still burn."

Arthur snatched them away. "Oh, stop fretting. I'll get on. The more you fuss the worse it will be."

Francis sighed. "What am I to do with you?"

"Kiss me, twat, that's what," Arthur snapped. "Do you think I'm laying this close to you naked for nothing? Stupid frog."

Francis didn't say anything, just kissed him. It was a needy kiss, a desperate kiss, but it was perfect to both of them. Francis could tell that Arthur wanted more, and he rolled on top of him. The Briton blinked up at him.

"You're not top—"

"Ah-ah," Francis chided with a smile. "Your hands, cher."

Arthur huffed but their lips met again. He didn't like the idea of bottoming a frog. But his hands were incapable of doing much… as much as Arthur hated to admit it. And it seemed only fair that Francis should top after Arthur had—

"Ah, Francis~" The man's lips had moved to his neck, his fingers brushing over his nipples. "Oh, mmm."

Francis sucked at the junction between Arthur's neck and shoulder. He was aware of the dull ache in his own ass with every move he made, but he ignored it for Arthur's sake. It was obvious the Briton needed this.

"Arthur, mon amour," Francis murmured against his warm skin, trailing kisses up to his lover's ear.

Arthur scoffed and turned his head. "Shut up already with the bloody frog language." And he captured Francis's lips again.

Francis responded in kind, coaxing Arthur's lips apart so he could slip a tongue inside. Arthur's arms came up to wrap around his neck and pull him close and Francis could feel the Briton's hardness against him.

"AAAAAOOOOOOOOOOO."

The two jumped apart. Francis looked in the direction of the howl. It seemed to be coming from just outside of the camp. His whole body became stiff and his cock was soft within seconds.

Arthur shifted below him. "Francis? It's just a wolf—"

But Francis ignored him and waited until the howling was finished, staring for just a few more seconds before rolling back into his spot behind Arthur, holding the Briton close to him. "Je suis désolé, amant." he muttered, shivering. "Another time."

Arthur couldn't believe this shit. They had been so close to sexing it up and Francis had to stop just because a wolf howled? Now Arthur had a raging hard-on he didn't have any idea what to do with. Selfish prat, he mused, trying to will his erection away. For a few minutes he lay there, brooding and blueballing before he couldn't take it and whispered a spell. His cock went limp immediately and he breathed a sigh of relief. But he could feel his energy being sapped away by the use of magic.

Don't start something you can't finish, frog, Arthur wanted to say, but Francis was already softly snoring—or at least pretending to.

Translations:

Le feu ne peut pas tuer un incendie-Fire cannot kill a fire

Je suis désolé-I'm sorry

A Word From the Writer: Fuck, I'm sorry, but I just love cockblocking. I dunno why it entertains me so much, but it was kinda fun to write France not wanting to have sex (because it's really rare). I feel bad for England, but, meh, he'll live. And will he ever bottom? Hmmm...

Nichu exists. It EXISTS! I overuse this pairing a lot, but I think it's really cute, y'know? Just like Turcan... WHY YOU NO HAVE FOLLOWING TURCAN?! TT^TT

Oh, and I've been meaning to say this for a shit ton of chapters now, but this whole fic was inspired by a song. Yes, a song, though it's not really a song fic, per se. Anyway, at the time I was obsessed with Green Day's "Holiday." It's not really an apocalyptic song, but I just liked how it inspired rebellion 'n stuff. I was originally going to include the song in the title of the fic, but I scrapped that and came up with a better one. I could say there are many songs that would go along with this (but not "Radioactive." God, they've just about killed that and it's so horribly cliché), but I tend to listen to "In the End" by Black Veil Brides and "Dear Agony" by Breaking Benjamin as I'm writing, especially the latter when it comes to the sad scenes. As for the radio, I boycott it. I belong in the 80s with metal and grunge and rock, not all this "You broke up with me and I'm gonna write a song about it for the millionth fucking time" shit. Goddamn, people, give it a rest. If it bothers you that much that you can't keep a piece of ass, buy yourself a blow up doll. They don't talk back, they don't nag, they aren't bitchy, and, hey, fucks whenever you want! :D

Hahaha. I'm forever alone. -_-