If already depressed, turn back now.

Warning: Sad stuff, angst, FrUK and RusAme (non-explicit).

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

Running in Place

Alfred had told them to follow route 80/90, which would lead them in a wide skirt around Toledo and merge with route 80 outside Cleveland. From there, they would head southeast, taking route 70/76 past Pittsburgh to link with 270 that led into D.C. Their anxiety pushed them to drive all night into the next morning. Francis, whose hands were practically glued to the wheel, jumped as Arthur's voice cracked through the hours-long silence.

"Francis, you're nodding off."

"Hm?" Francis grunted, his eyelids feeling as if they were lifting dumbbells.

"Pull over. You need to sleep."

Francis regretfully parked on the shoulder, slumping with fatigue. The events of the day before had drained him significantly, and watching the dashed white lines on the road go by had made him all the more drowsy. Everyone else pulled in behind him.

Arthur looked down at Alfred who had fallen asleep leaning against the window, but had since been jostled to lay with his cheek pressed against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur brushed the stray hair back from his sleeping face, his skin still sticky with tears. He lay Alfred down in the seat, kissing him softly on the forehead (after making sure Francis wasn't looking) before opening the door and getting out.

When Arthur opened the driver's side door, Francis didn't move from his position with his arms propped up on the steering wheel and his face buried between them. "Come on, frog. Cut the engine. There's no way we can keep going without a little sleep."

Francis groaned before he turned the key and swung his legs outside the door. He raised himself on his legs, but the limbs buckled, the result of perpetually tense muscles following their leave from Chicago combined with gnawing grief. Arthur rushed forward to catch him, surprised that it seemed so instinctual to help the Frenchman by now. He could take solace in that, as he caught Francis with a huff at his heavy form (though it worried him that he felt significantly lighter than a few weeks ago and that his own strength was ebbing), pushing him back into the driver's seat. "On second thought, stay there. You won't really be of much use anyway." He turned to greet the others who were just getting out of the vans when his wrist was grabbed.

The fingers that clasped him were shaky and clammy and everything that made up the core of Francis's being. His head was ducked, and his matted hair covered his features. "I…" he began, but nothing would manifest but for a scratchy lump in his throat.

Arthur understood. Years of rivalry with Francis permitted him the insight he needed to know what he wanted and needed. Arthur took Francis's hand and clasped it with both of his own, tightly. "Je suis ici, Francis."

Francis's breath quivered with the return of words, though they were not meant for Arthur. "Je suis désolé, mon ami cher."

Arthur stared at him for a moment, the Frenchman still not lifting his head to meet his eyes. Then he said, "Back into the truck. It's rather cold out here." And he gave Francis's head a kiss before helping him back into the seat. Arthur didn't like how his partner's body melded instantly with the curves of the seat, as if it wished to become part of it, to never move again. Arthur hesitated, swallowing, before softly closing the door, pulling his coat up around his ears, and braving the chill wind to meet with the others.

The gusts were so strong that their skinny bodies were swept back and forth as if batted by an unseen force, the rushing air biting at their eyes and ears. Someone Arthur gleaned as Yao shouted and waved his arms as he approached. It was not even a whisper compared to the constant roar of the wind.

"Pardon?"

"… ere… camp here?"

"Yes!" Arthur shouted back, worried that the upper layer of his skin would be sheared off as he quickened his pace. "Here! We camp here tonight!"

There were no suggestions to sleep in the vehicles, although they would have made a more suitable place to rest, free from the near endless buffeting of icy prairie currents blowing mercilessly in from the west. There was no desire to sleep in the same place such evil had occupied not but a few hours earlier. They were all so drained from prior events that their bodies were ready to drop. No amount of rest they had gotten while traveling with Jeanne and her deceiving companions could make up for the fact that they had now lost two of their group: first Sadiq, and then Gilbert.

Where once was control, there was now a growing void. Whether it would swallow them up before the end none of them wanted to ponder.

As haggard as they were, they did not forget about Gilbert nor Sadiq. Somehow the grave they had left in place of Sadiq's missing body so many miles ago seemed insufficient to honor his memory. Matthew was unwilling to give up Sadiq's only remaining possession—the black bandana mask still wrapped around his arm. Matthew understood the importance of closure, but walking away from all that they had shared before his death was something that Matthew simply could not do.

So, they settled for a moment. It took a while, but they managed to use lighters to burn Sadiq's signature crescent and star into the bark of a wide tree. It's roots ran deep and its branches reached up, grasping for the moon. Afterward, Matthew carved A Love That Will Last Forever—Mattie into the trunk, unable to admire his work for fear of breaking down again. Why was it that such a short love had so much of an impact on him?

In a clearing adjacent, they plotted Gilbert's grave below a tree. It looked ancient by all standards, the roots gnarled and breaching the soil in humps, its trunk weathered but sturdy. It split into two separate trunks, each going in a different direction. The lack of leaves meant the moonlight shone through the branches in stark, admirable streams.

Thus, they placed the giant below the giant—through weakness and power, Gilbert had always been a colossus wherever he went. The absence of his loud, obnoxious laugh brought the hollowness out in everything.

Ivan scooped out a grave, his thoughts empty and his stiff muscles adjusting to the now familiar ritual. Despite knowing Ivan possessed an injury, no one desired to help him—to be the grave digger. Ivan was numb to the pain anyway. This was becoming a far too common occurrence, and everyone knew that. It twisted their empty bellies to the point of sickness and darkened their minds with foreboding. After the grave was dug, Alfred and Ludwig went to fetch Gilbert, Ludwig insisting to help. The German's legs were shaking by the time they got back. Every step closer to that grave meant the closure of Gilbert's death. Ivan noticed Ludwig's struggle and offered his aid. Ludwig was too far gone in his grief to give him anymore than a strained grunt before he wobbled over to a tree for support, eyes watching as his brother was carried to a grave in a place they may never see again. This was his last goodbye.

Alfred did not meet the Russian's eyes the whole time they carried Gilbert's body. The man was making an obvious point of looking everywhere else but at Ivan. And, despite the corpse of one of their own heavy in his arms, Ivan found himself mourning over Alfred's retreat caused by the Russian's own selfish needs.

And still his needs were more important. And still Alfred was an imperceptive asshole. Not even the end of the world could bring them any closer. Ivan knew long ago that he would be alone. He'd always been alone. A product of his environment, he would be nothing more than an annoyance and an occasional fuck to Alfred. The one he loved most hated him immensely. What else had he been expecting? Everything was a struggle for him, so why did this hurt worse than all of the other horrible shit he had experienced?

Lovino was silent and stiff, watching with dead eyes as they lay Gilbert in the grave. He had cried all that he had out of him. All that was left of him was emptiness and a familiar sense of loss. He hated that it was familiar, and dually hated the fact that such a familiarity would return to him so terribly soon.

They all stood in silence and stared at the body. Gilbert's pale skin glowed as if made of moonlight. It was such a breathtaking sight that none of them wanted to say anything, as it would only lead to him being buried sooner.

Naturally, they all looked to Lovino and Ludwig to begin the obituary, but all there was was empty air. Ludwig felt crippled, and he clung to the tree, his lips quivering with a great effort to keep in sobs, his throat burning with an urge to vent. He held his head in his hand, the other pressed against the tree, nails digging into the bark. Lovino, meanwhile, stood there with a blank expression and myopic stare. He looked like a statue. Feliciano didn't know who the comfort more, so, conflicted, he remained where he was, trying his best not to burst into noisy tears.

They were all standing there awkwardly, not quite knowing how to begin, when suddenly Lovino turned on his heel… and left. He walked past the others without a sound or any form of acknowledgment. He walked right past Ludwig, who gave him a disbelieving glare.

"Lovino," Francis began with confusion. "Ami, where are you going? Aren't you—"

Lovino didn't seem to hear him as he continued on his way. Ludwig couldn't take it and gathered all of the anger gained from losing Gilbert to shout, "Get back here, you cold bastard! He was your lover. Don't you care for him at all?"

Lovino didn't even flinch nonetheless stop. His legs were ceaseless in their mission to get out. Get out, get out, get out. Lovino's empty thoughts were filled with this one mantra. I have to get out. He was running away from something he knew he could not outrun. It was useless, but Lovino felt that if he didn't get away he would never want to leave.

Ludwig's temper simmered over then. How dare he? Standing at the foot of his lover's grave, and what does he give Gilbert? Not a word, not even a tear. Before he could stop himself, his legs were moving swiftly after him, jaw clenched as well as fists. He didn't know what he would have done to Lovino if Feliciano hadn't grabbed him around his waist. The skinny arms came around him and held him like a vice—a child's grip, strong, and prompting pause for consideration.

"Please, Luddy," Feliciano begged. "He's just troubled."

He has a funny way of showing it, Ludwig thought, but he did not take another step further. Instead, he turned and faced his brother's grave. In his pocket, his fingers found the pocket watch Gilbert had kept and gripped it.

"I would say I loved him," Ludwig began, addressing the group but at the same time feeling in his own isolated bubble of grief. "But then, I expect you already know that." He chewed on his lip for a moment, thinking how best to describe his brother while equally knowing that defining him would be nigh on impossible. "It would not be proper to say I knew everything about him—he was an anomaly even to me. He had his positives and his negatives, and he tended to go to the extreme of either end more than anything. On top of being a pain in the arsch, he was my brother, and that meant more to me than any trouble he caused. He had always been there for me, to support me, granted in a unique way. When I signed him off the map, I thought he would be furious." He finally met eyes with Gilbert's pale, inert form and his voice caught. "But he wasn't. Sad, yes, but never angry. He knew as well as I that his time had ended. He said it was my time now, and that he hoped I would take what he'd taught me to do better than he ever could. And I promised him I would."

His fist clenched around the pocket watch, and his throat constricted. He studied Gilbert's dead face, his blue lips, the blood coating the side of his head, and he had to look away. "He said before this that he was expendable. He said that itf it came down to me or him, he would… he…" Ludwig cleared his throat shakily and swallowed. "H-he said he would do anything to make sure I stayed alive. But what he didn't understand was that he wasn't worthless. He never was worthless. I know I'm his younger brother and he felt responsible for my well-being, but he didn't deserve to die like this. Neither did Sadiq or Marge or Ruby… Belgium or the Netherlands… Austria or Hungary… Hong Kong or Taiwan or South Korea… Sweden, Finland, Monaco, Luxembourg, the Baltics, Greece, Ukraine, Belarus," He fought to keep his voice firm as he listed the names, but as he ticked them off he began to feel the weight of being one of the only survivors out of them all bearing down on him ever further. "Mexico, Australia, the Nordics, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Wales, the Irelands, Scotland… Spain."

Ludwig's chest felt like it was being crushed inward, and his breath had left him. "I wish I could have him back so I can tell him how much I love him. I never did tell him enough. I hardly told him at all." His voice finally broke and so did his façade. He covered his face with a hand and couldn't contain the tears any longer. Through hundreds of years of living, nothing had ever hurt him this much. "Even when he was no longer a country he was th-there. I was the o-one who dissolved him and he does this. For me." Feliciano held him then, and Ludwig was once again surprised at how firm it felt. Everyone was so quiet it was as if no one was even there. They were all holding their breaths. No one ever thought it would come to this—Ludwig crying. It was as much an anomaly as it was heartbreaking.

Ludwig lost himself for a minute before he wiped his face and stood straight, eyes still shining with mourning. "Bury him. Please. I… I don't want to see him like this."

Ivan didn't say anything, just did his job. He was forced to look down at Gilbert's corpse as he shoveled the soil onto him. How long before he would be burying Alfred? How long before he would be the one lamenting and breaking?

Similar thoughts were tossed around in everyone else's heads. They were huddled together now against the cold and the biting wind. None of it seemed to matter outside of Ludwig's pain. Feliciano's fingers were locked around him, hugging him tightly from behind and possibly the only thing keeping Ludwig on his feet.

"Ich liebe dich," Ludwig said, and his heart clenched with the fact that he hadn't told Gilbert enough. "I already miss your goddamn annoying laugh." A sob ripped from his lungs that he couldn't smother, and by that time Ivan was patting down the dirt with the flat of his shovel.

No one said anything. What could they say? That Gilbert was a good man? That his death was cruel? That they promised to fix everything for him? It had been the same with every death and burial, the same promises. Of what worth were they?

Ludwig stayed beside the grave for a while, and Feliciano stayed with him while the others left to set up camp. The wind proved troublesome for them, and they were forced to clear a space between the trees of snow before pitching the tents. Their movements were slow and solemn, weighed down by guilt and cold. It took them ten minutes to get everything ready, and as ravenous as they were they were each forced to share a can to two people. Ivan had to share with Matthew (who was still rather stony toward him) while Alfred ate half of his can alone, staring at the ground, before getting up to deliver the rest to Lovino who had taken to his tent.

"Lovino, it's me," Alfred announced his entrance, slipping inside. Lovino was laying on his sleeping bag, braiding the twine they had gotten from the safehouse. Alfred was perplexed, but he didn't question. Lovino appeared focused on what he was doing and content to forget about this troubles through the movements of his fingers. Alfred set down the half-eaten can by Lovino's working hands. "Here's your share. You might wanna eat it, or Feliciano might have a heart attack." He stood there for a moment, but Lovino did not respond, didn't even give any sign that he knew Alfred was standing over him. Alfred sighed and opened the flap, stepping out into the bitter cold and pulling his hood up around his face.

A few stragglers were left in the camp by the time Alfred walked across it to the tent he shared with Ivan. There was no way in hell Alfred was abandoning ship just because Ivan pissed him off. He never backed down before and he sure as fuck wouldn't now. He would sleep in that same tent with Ivan and the Russian would know he could never hurt him. He could never…

Alfred stopped a foot away from the tent opening, and he knew Ivan must have seen his shadow. His throat was growing scratchy again, and the heat of frustration flooded his face. The closer he got to the tent, the more upset he became. He certainly knew the reason, but he refused to admit it.

He ducked into the tent and didn't spare one look at Ivan. He pulled the sleeping bag off his back pack and unrolled it. When he began to undress, he could feel Ivan's eyes on him. It made his heart pound, but not with anxiety. He was determined to remain stoic, however, and he discarded his clothing orderly and without a word. Ivan would see what could have been his if only he had changed.

And Ivan watched. His eyes took in every inch of Alfred, and his fingers itched to touch him, to grab him tightly and pull him back to his sleeping bag—their sleeping bag—to sleep beside him, where he belonged. But he knew he could not. So he only watched as Alfred slipped into his own sleeping bag and turned his back to him, hiking up the material over his ears.

Ivan climbed into his own, his eyes, though tired, kept open by the mere sight of Alfred's hair tumbling out of the sleeping bag across from him, the slight rise and fall of the sleeping bag with each precious breath he took. And Alfred in turn was kept awake by his thoughts of Gilbert, of Lovino when he saw him in his tent, braiding the twine together with dead eyes. He would be an empty shell as Lovino was if he attached himself to Ivan and the Russian were to die. He would have to move on if he ever hoped to live without constant memories of Ivan and what closeness they had shared. But there was simply too much to forget.

Too much to forget. That was what had kept everyone up that night. Alfred and Ivan with their silent longing; Lovino with his braiding; Feliciano with the mourning Ludwig; Yao with the stony Kiku; Matthew clutching Sadiq's mask, just the scent of him making him ache; Arthur with his bandaged hands wrapped around Francis, talking to him, soothing him as best he could, and Francis's breaths so shallow Arthur feared for him. All of them had given up in one way or another.

Given up the dream of a perfect new society, where everything would be as it once was. There was too much corruption and evil in the world for it to ever be returned to that image they held so dear. They were truly starting over in a place that was completely foreign to them. Were they key players in this deadly game or were they just pawns to be sacrificed? Should they even try to right so many wrongs? Where would they ever begin?

To say that they were eager to get continue their journey was a terrible lie. They all knew when the sun came up they should be going, but fatigue and grief rendered them motionless for a couple hours after. All the while, Arthur was holding Francis even though he knew that Ludwig was too distraught to lead the group—now was his time. He would get over his fear of being unable to control his own actions just as he got over every change he had ever encountered in his history. He would not let himself disappear. Not after so many had said that he would.

"Francis," Arthur's voice was coarse and not his own, rough from disuse. Nonetheless his arms tightened around the man he was curled up to, squeezing insistently. "Francis, come on. It's time to leave."

Francis did not move and it was only then that Arthur noticed how cold he felt. Without fully grasping what it all meant, his eyes filled and spilled over before he could stop it. "Francis?" He was shaking him harder now, not feeling the Frenchman's chest rise or fall with breath. "Francis, stop it. Wake up, dammit. It's time to leave. Francis!"

Francis moved and all the air left Arthur's lungs. "Mnn, do not shout, cher. It is early."

Arthur found himself shaking and his ribs hurt from where his heart was trying to escape through them. He held Francis tightly to him, struggling to calm himself. "You're… you're such a sod."

Francis's voice was a croak, his demeanor dull and distant. "Non, but I am cold."

Arthur immediately set about righting their sleeping bag, which had slipping down on Francis's side almost to the man's hip. "The damn zipper's faulty," Arthur snapped, as if the zipper actually cared. He pulled Francis to him and urged him to turn over so that his frigid front could press against Arthur's warm belly. Arthur hissed at the chill, but held him nonetheless.

"You scare me sometimes," Arthur told him as he buried his nose in Francis's unruly hair.

Francis didn't say anything. He huddled up against his lover, his numb skin prickling as it became more sensitive to touch with the warmth Arthur provided. He would not tell Arthur that he had been dreaming of curling up beside Gilbert in his grave, his breath gradually slowing until he left to join the friends that he so missed. He could never tell Arthur.

"I love you," Arthur said, and there was no shame in admitting it. To do so was not to be defeated; it was to conquer and to evolve. To change. "I know you are hurting, but we have to keep going. Looking back will only hinder us now."

Francis's fingers dug into Arthur's chest and he rested his forehead against it, swallowing. He was shivering, and Arthur waited for him to stop before looking down at him. "Come now, love, it's time to get up."

Francis ran through all of those times he had dreamed of Arthur saying those words to him, how they would be laying together in a warm bed and Arthur would have a smile on his face instead of worry heavy in his eyes. But they were here, stuffed into a ragged sleeping bag, the cold closing around them in a suffocating cloud, the world a wreck, and Toni and Gilbert snatched from him. Yet Arthur was here, holding him and confessing his love to him. It seemed just as surreal as everything else that had happened.

Francis pressed his lips against Arthur's skin before wriggling out the sleeping bag to sit up. Arthur did not waste time in fetching Francis's clothes for him and hurriedly tugging them on. He barely felt the cold on his own bare skin.

Arthur was in the midst of buttoning up Francis's coat before Francis grabbed his hands and stopped him. "I can do the rest, amour," he assured.

Arthur took this as a message to dress himself, and he did so, his body consumed with shivers for a few minutes afterward.

Arthur kissed Francis's chapped lips, alarmed when the man barely responded. Francis returned the favor chastely—far from the passionate, open-mouthed kiss they usually shared (and which most often to led to other activities). When Arthur pulled away, he took Francis's hand and squeezed it. He would not let the man distance himself from him.

He pulled Francis out of the tent and into the camp, his hand tight around Francis's. Being together was his rock. If he lost it, then he would lose himself. Francis knew everything about Arthur and vice versa. They had been living off of each other's actions and reactions for centuries without fully realizing. Arthur knew it was horribly cliché, but Francis made him whole; the one who knew when he was hurting, when he was lying, when he was conflicted, when he needed to be taken care of (as much as he disliked to admit). He hoped that Francis's feelings for him were similar, because if Francis walked away, Arthur would follow. He had never been so miserable and so in love in his life.

No one mentioned how quiet everything was now that Gilbert was gone. Ludwig packed his belongings up with a clenched jaw and eyes of steel, white-knuckled hands moving quickly, almost tearing. The night before had been the last time he would ever be so weak. He had finished his mourning and was not like to return to it. At least not until after he strangled each and every Organization member he encountered. Feliciano watched him, afraid to help him and feeling useless because of it. He didn't want to break the fragile young wall of security Ludwig had built up around himself. The Italian had curled up to him, held him, the night before. Feliciano had never held anyone. He had been woken out of a dead sleep by the bunching of Ludwig's muscles. They remained tense for the rest of the night and Feliciano stayed awake in case Ludwig decided to do something rash.

Feliciano had never cared for anyone before now. Mostly, he was the one who needed watching over. But this was different. He loved Ludwig, and that love gave him enough strength to support the both of them. Mentally, of course.

But Lovino needed him as well. He knew something was wrong with his brother. He had packed up his tent slowly and with disinterest hinging on resignation. Afterward he stood slumped, eyes heavy, head ducked, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He appeared as if he would topple over at a breath and wouldn't care to get back up again. His only response to questions asked of him were a slight shake or nod of his head.

Lovino let Feliciano hold his hand, and Feliciano thought that was a big step for him. But the loose way he held it, as if he was numb to his touch, caused Feliciano more worry than reassurance. The more Feliciano watched his brother suffer, the more he longed to shake him—wake him up, because this was not living.

Arthur cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud to their ears. "So," he began, fingers squeezing Francis's own from his place beside him. "Who's driving?"

Translations:

Je suis ici-I am here

Je suis désolé, mon ami cher-I am sorry, my dear friend

A Word From the Writer: Ugh SAD. Everything about this... well, things are about to heat up, so it's okay. You got some angsty FrUK and RusAme going on... no lemon, sorry. As a side note, I find I'm writing a lot of lemon during the non-lemony parts of this fic just to get it out of my system. I'm working on a one-shot, but I've been so consumed by this I haven't had the time to complete it, haha. Ah, my brain. Always filled with pr0n. Thus is the life of a fangirl.

Btw, if there are any discrepancies in the itinerary of the group, blame Google Maps.