Just your regular action and depression.

Warning: Angst, dangerous situation, weapons, general sadness.

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

Broken Things and Waiting Wings

You're fucking crazy, Al, Matthew thought in disbelief as he beheld the man moving around in the bed of the truck, attempting to retrieve weapons and ammo while being jostled by the vehicle. "I can't believe he'd do something like this," Matthew said, more irritated at Alfred than nervous. Why would anyone ever think that climbing into the back of a moving truck with a giant-ass fucking gun staring them down was a sensible idea?

You're not invincible anymore, you moron.

"Matthieu," Francis shouted over the din of bullets and engines. "We must get down."

Matthew was reluctant to take his eyes off his brother, but he knew that Francis would be all the more stressed if he refused, so he did what the man asked of him.

Arthur, meanwhile, was having trouble remaining focused. His heart was in his throat, and it could have jumped from his mouth every time he saw Alfred stumble in the back. He was for once at a loss. There was no way they were coming out of this unscathed.

He jumped and nearly whipped the wheel to the side with the sound of gunfire. It was deafening and close and accurate, the back window riddled with holes in seconds flat. Christ, Arthur thought, blood rushing in his ears. They've got a fucking machine gun.

The back window shattered in a shower of glass shards, spilling over Matthew and Francis as they covered their heads. Arthur felt bullets imbed themselves in the back of his seat. The hair on the back of his neck rose when he could feel the heat from one of them seeping through his headrest, dangerously close his skull. He decided right then that he would do anything to be out of such a situation—not an impressive feat, as everyone would. But his plan completely changed course when he heard gunfire and looked into his mirrors again.

Alfred was gone.

Reality hit him like a cinder block to the chest. All the breath went out of him in a suffocating rush, only then to flood back in with his rapid breathing. His hands shook where they were white-knuckled on the arc of the worn steering wheel. His head pounded with every round blast, every second he remained in the same position, sitting and pressing forward, lead littering the cab. He glanced at the mirrors again, just to be sure, but there was still no Alfred.

Oh my God, Arthur thought immediately. He had gone over just what he would do if something like this happened, but he hadn't expected the weight to be so heavy. Look at what you did, Alfred. You idiot yank, what did I tell you? Even so, he was far from irate. He was… he knew what the emotion was, but he was not willing to admit he possessed it. He hadn't seen Alfred hit. For all he knew, the fool could just be crouching down in the back, still rummaging through those stupid bags. But the more Arthur thought on the possibility, the more he discredited it. Alfred would hide, yes, but only for as long as necessary. It had been far too long since Arthur last saw him.

"Arthur!" Francis yelled, nails ripping the upholstery as he was thrown across the seats to smash into Matthew. Arthur had jerked the truck to one side and his foot was pressed all the way down on the accelerator. Ninety, ninety-five, one-hundred and ten, one-hundred and twenty—

"What are you doing?" Francis practically screamed. Arthur had swerved sharply, guiding the truck toward the shoulder where a guardrail sat waiting to crush them. He snatched Matthew up and forced him down between the seats, fitting himself in with him, anticipating a crash. But he couldn't believe it. His eyes locked on Arthur, but the man's eyes were forward, unblinking, blank. He was so still he could be a corpse.

They were within a measly twenty feet of the rail when Francis knew truly Arthur's intentions. They were still picking up speed, and at such a velocity the impact would be fatal. But Arthur did not show any sign of fear, or rather any emotion whatsoever. No, Francis thought, clutching Matthew to him and sputtering out a stream of apologies in French. I'm sorry this is happening. I'm sorry I can't save you. I'm sorry we have to die this way. I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise.

No, Francis kept thinking. No, this is not happening. Arthur would never do anything like this, he wouldn't—"Arthur!" Francis cried and held tight to Matthew, the rail rushing forward to meet them.

He waited and waited, and then… the truck swerved.

It was so unexpected and sudden that Francis at first didn't know if he was dead or still alive. But when he gathered the courage to peer up, he saw Arthur taking the wheel hand over hand, the tires screeching their protest below them. The smell of smoking rubber was choking. The stench invaded his nostrils and made his eyes water, but it could have been the sweetest scent he'd ever encountered if it meant that he was still whole. Francis was just finding the courage to breathe when he was thrown to the side, holding onto the seat as he was jarred, the van tipping forward sharply then listing sideways.

It was his fault. The van was tumbling into the dip at the bottom of the hill, submerging in snow that climbed up the passenger's side because Arthur had been reckless in a moment of panic. He yelled when he was pulled down with the vehicle, falling and scrabbling at the dash until his seatbelt locked and caught him around his chest and gut, nearly strangling him. It all happened so fast that Arthur barely had time to thank God he had avoided the guardrail. He faintly heard what sounded like a crash not far away, but he was too caught up in the pain dealt by his leg being snagged beneath the brake to pay it much mind. He was so winded and dizzy that his vision speckled black for a minute before he regained his sight and realized he was hanging sideways in the cab and all was still and quiet. His head throbbed. He must have hit it on the dash and not known it. "Ah…" He put a shaky hand to his head and pulled it back, observing blood staining his palm. Altogether his heart began to race, and he struggled to free himself from the suffocating seatbelt, the likes of which had given him a raw rash and practically choked him as it had dug in—but at least he had swerved far enough away to avoid the airbag. He eventually collected himself enough to have the sense to unbuckle the damn thing. He yelped as he plummeted to the passenger's seat, over the middle compartment, skin bruising, receiving a shock of cold as he landed on a mound of intruding snow and shattered glass. He hastily climbed back over the middle compartment, glass digging into his palms as he hauled himself over, using the center console to crouch shakily upon and examine the mess he had created.

"Francis?" he called, his voice raspy and quivering. "Matthew?" His throat convulsed and he couldn't call for Alfred. Because Alfred was… there was no way he could be…

Please, don't let me have killed them.

He heard something shift and was grateful for the distraction. A few misplaced blond locks moved ever so slightly and a feeble voice drifted to him from below. "Arthur, I'm here…"

"Francis." Arthur gripped the driver's headrest and extended tentative legs over the console, moving himself to sit on top of the tipped passenger's seat, wincing with a dull pain that crept up his hip. He peered down, regarding a very still, very pale Francis lying sprawled on the snow that had managed to punch through the side windows closest to the ground. Bits of the window littered the surface along with stark drops and smears of blood. His limbs didn't appear injured beyond bruising, but his forehead was bleeding and blood was caking the base of his skull. He lifted a withering hand, flecked with shining bits of glass and the blood they extracted. Slender fingers flexed, grabbing at empty air. "Oh Dieu merci, tu es bien."

"Yes," Arthur choked out, and his throat became scratchy with guilt. "I'm sorry, Francis."

"Don't," Francis told him, his voice straining as he struggled to sit up. He held his back. "A-ah, the g-glass…"

Arthur shook his head, denying to himself the fact that he had done this. He swung himself down into the now vertical back seat, the harsh pain in his thigh from the bruise he'd earned from the crevice he'd fallen into earlier barely a low hum in the back of his mind. He gingerly dug his shoes into the cushions so that he had one foot wedged between them with the other positioned behind Francis's hunched form. He gathered the man in his arms, smelling dirt and snow and blood. "Francis, you're hurt. I'm sorry."

Francis grunted and tried to get his feet under him. "Non, it's not your fault. You were trying to escape."

Arthur swallowed dryly. I was trying to thwart them. Arthur had thought that by rushing toward the shoulder and swerving at the last minute that the Organization van would just continue on careening and smash into the guardrail. Instead of them getting away clean, Arthur had overestimated the abilities of the truck and here they were, nursing wounds from a plan that could very well have killed them.

"Matthieu," Francis called, his voice still trembling with the affects of shock. He had managed to get into a crouch, though he felt his legs were close to giving out. His head ached like hell and his fingers and face were close to numb, but when he saw the glass imbedded in his palms he was surprised to find that he did not feel a thing. "Matthieu." Francis's voice rose in anxiety as he found the boy, prying him out from the floor between the upended seats. He was alarmed when Matthew tumbled down onto the protruding mound of snow. Francis gathered him up in his arms, and Arthur's heart plummeted.

Matthew groaned and cracked open his eyes. "O-ow…" He got his hands under him, not minding the glass sticking into his skin, hoisting himself shakily upward. He held his head and his hand slid down to rub his sore neck. "Shit."

"Are you hurt?" Francis fussed, straightening Matthew's hair and plucking the glass out of his palm.

Matthew blinked, dizzy. He had been seeing double for a good few minutes now, and it was not because he had lost his glasses in the crash. He saw them now, scratched a bit but otherwise undamaged. "I… ah, I-I hit my head on the door when the van tipped." He rolled his neck around, hearing something pop. It ached, as his head had kind of been smashed into it for a second, but overall nothing seemed broken. He peered up at Francis and Arthur, seeing four where he should have seen two. "Ugh, I'm a little dizzy… my eyesight's still a bit jarred." He blinked a few times, slowly, before realizing he should have seen six people before him. "Where's Al?"

Arthur's mouth dropped open then. "Oh my God." And he clawed his way up the seats, squeezing the toes of his shoes into any crevice he could find, his bruised leg screaming as he forced his way up, arms shooting out to grip the window frame. He pulled the latch to open the door, but it was too hard to open in his position. The window was rolled up, but suddenly Arthur didn't see that as any sort of insurmountable barrier; he drew back and jammed his fist right through it, shards flying past him and raining down on the men below as they covered their heads and yelled in alarm. He hooked his fingers onto the slick outside, blood running down his wrists from the sharp glass. His mind, however, was too occupied to register such pain. Alfred had been in the bed of the van when it had overturned. He was laying somewhere, dying slowly…

He yanked himself up and through the window, adrenaline providing him strength he never thought he could possess. He felt nothing—not the glass in his hands nor the pain in his leg, the ache in his skull. Alfred, he thought as he slid down the side of the vehicle, arms jarring on the foot step as he went over it, his legs buckling only a little as he hit the ground from five feet in the air. He stumbled a bit, hands going out to catch himself on the snowy ground. He barely felt his wounds sting in protest of the cold. Alfred.

He managed to straighten himself out and his eyes darted around quickly and thoroughly, scanning the little, snow-packed dip he was currently standing shin-deep in. When he saw nothing immediately, he trudged forward through the drift, cursing it for inhibiting his speed. "Alfred!" he called, shaking from adrenaline rush and angst. "Alfred, where are you?"

He finally picked his way around the back, noting that the bed of the truck was empty, as he expected. Their packs had tumbled out, scattered across the snow and leaking their heavy contents. He followed the line of mess with his eyes until he saw a dark, still mass sprawled across the whiteness. He ran toward it.

"Alfred!" he shouted, reaching him and going to his knees. The man was face down in the snow, blood smeared beneath his head and his glasses lying crumpled and broken a few feet away. With trembling hands, Arthur seized Alfred's shoulders and turned him over. His eyes grew wet and burning. "A-Alfred."

His face was nearly blue on one side from the chill of the snow. The source of his bleeding came from a long cut just under his bruised eye, already shriveled shut and swollen. He felt so cold when Arthur felt for a pulse. "God." It was faint, but it was still there. He pulled his hand away and took Alfred into his arms. "Alfred," he muttered, slapping his cheek. "Alfred, come on, now. Open your eyes." When the boy still did not wake up, Arthur's lips began to quiver with an impending sob. "Alfred, please." He took Alfred's hand in his own and squeezed it. It didn't squeeze back. "No," he whispered. "Come on, yank. Stupid, stupid yank, don't you leave. I haven't told you I'm sorry yet, dammit."

Arthur was so engrossed in his impending grief that he didn't hear the snow crunching behind him. "Is he…?"

Arthur turned his head to see Ivan standing a few feet away, chest heaving, the doors to his van open and abandoned. The Russian had been so anxious to get to the wreck that he unintentionally popped his shoulder back into place with how hard he had opened his door. Tears burned down Arthur's frozen face. The sight of Ivan's eyes widening and lowering made Arthur turn back around.

Alfred opened his one good eye and blinked up at him, wind-chapped lips parting. "Fuck… I-I feel like shit."

Arthur let out a quivering breath and gave a small smile. "Stupid," he muttered, squeezing Alfred's hand again. Alfred instinctively squeezed back, his grip a bit weak. Arthur rubbed at his teary eyes with his other hand. "I'm sorry, Alfred."

"'S fine, bro." Alfred waved a dismissive hand and tried to sit up only to become dizzy and fall back down again.

Arthur caught him and his nerves kicked in again. "Alfred, don't close your eyes, okay? Whatever you do—"

Then all of a sudden Ivan was standing over him. Arthur stared at him as he crouched down, scooped Alfred up in his arms, ignoring the twinge it caused in his recently righted shoulder, and proceeded to walk to the open van. Arthur jumped up to join him, grabbing Alfred's broken glasses, the way Alfred was laying limply with eyes hooded and face pale making his stomach do back flips. "Ivan…"

"More will come," the Russian said, Arthur struggling to keep up with his fast pace. He set Alfred gently upright in the back seat and strapped him in. He brushed the hair from the American's face and muttered, "Не оставляй меня," before turning and shouting, "Everyone back to the vehicles!"

No one asked any questions. No one hesitated. Arthur and Ludwig ran over to help Francis and Matthew out of the wreckage and into one of the intact vans in a flash. They fetched the slightly dented snowplow from the front bumper of the damaged truck and attached it to one of the vans. Whatever gas that could be salvaged from it was promptly siphoned and stored. Yao, Kiku, Lovino, Feliciano, and Ludwig all crammed into one van while Matthew, Arthur, Francis, Alfred, and Ivan took to another. The Russian opened the driver's side door and made to step in when he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

It was Arthur. "I can drive." They met eyes and they both knew what Arthur meant: Ivan could be in the back with Alfred, which was just as well. Ivan looked too flustered to be doing much of anything but tending to Alfred.

So Arthur swallowed his angst, swallowed his guilt, swallowed his fear and let it all sit heavily in his stomach, just waiting to come back up. He slid into the driver's seat with Francis in the passenger's, and they both exchanged identical glances.

"I'll kill them," Arthur swore before following Yao at breakneck speed, driving past the totaled truck stuck in the snowdrift and the black Organization van next to it that was smashed on the guardrail. Arthur's plan. Arthur's victory. Arthur's mistake.

Next time it would be different.

They decided to throw off the Organization's scent by making a detour to Cleveland, Ohio. They took route 90 and got off just outside it, pulling into a silent neighborhood to locate cars from which they could siphon gas. It wasn't hard—so many people had abandoned their homes, been locked up, or killed in riots that a variety of vehicles lined the streets. However, most appeared looted, the glass broken and the cab strewn with useless items. These were the vehicles they discovered were devoid of fuel as well.

They did not split up nor did they give up. It took them till nightfall, but they did manage to procure a few gallons of gas. They divided their findings between the two remaining vans before agreeing that it was too dangerous to stop anymore. They resolved to drive continuously to the capital from then on. They would each take turns driving in five-hour shifts (except for Feliciano and the injured, understandably). It wasn't until Alfred began to slip in and out of consciousness that they were forced to stop and make him walk around in the brisk cold to wake him up. He hadn't been allowed to sleep ever since the crash for fear of him never waking up again. Ivan spent much of his time tending to Alfred's injuries, murmuring to him Russian words everyone seemed to understand, and acting as his crutch as he took his nightly walk to keep him awake and relieve himself. By one in the morning, after many instances of Alfred nearly blacking out, Matthew stopped the van.

"We can't keep doing this," the Canadian said, examining Alfred's pale face and squinting eyes. He himself was aching and had insisted on sharing the load of driving, but it was all starting to catch up to him. His neck was burning and every limb was sore from being tossed around like laundry in the rolling van only hours earlier. Couple that with the fact that Alfred was getting worse by the minute, and Matthew didn't know how much more he could take.

Arthur was grateful that someone had spoken up. It was his turn to drive next, and his nerves were far too frayed to even possess the ability to guide a vehicle. Kiku had pulled the other van up next to them and said, "We are stopping?"

"Oui," Francis told him solemnly before opening the door and going around to the back to fetch the tents.

Arthur tore himself away from Alfred to follow him. "What do you think you're doing? The Organization members could be only a few hours behind, and you want to set up camp?"

Francis shook his head and plucked the needed items from the heap in the back, offering them to Arthur who subconsciously took them. "What else can we do, cher?"

The hollowness in Francis's voice startled Arthur as well as the solemn nature of the moving bodies around him. They had come close to death more times than anyone cared to count, and the constant paranoia and stress were taking a toll on them. They were all so exhausted from being so wound up, that it was a slow struggle just to get everything set up. But it had to be done; Alfred needed to stretch out for a while as well as Francis and Matthew, and Arthur didn't realize that he still had glass in his palms until Yao pointed it out and set to plucking the shards free.

Ivan carried Alfred out of the van, bundled up in a sleeping bag, a mist manifesting before Alfred's face reassuring Arthur that he was still breathing. No one got to see him for very long, however. Ivan rushed him to their tent, as if worried the cold might snuff him out, and no one dared disturb them.

In the end, Matthew slept alone. He didn't want to intrude on anyone's privacy and he felt like he needed to deal with his troubles by himself. He couldn't keep having everyone coddle him, relying on them to take away the pain for him. He had to get through it himself or else he would never have the strength to destroy the Organization as he wanted.

In their own tent, Francis and Arthur were far from grateful. They barely noticed the feeling among all the others swirling around inside them. They knew they needed to eat, as they hadn't eaten since the night before, but they both knew they were too high-strung to keep anything down. Instead, they gulped some water and curled up together in their sleeping bag, too shaken to even talk to each other. Arthur's apology was given in the form of an embrace, and Francis acknowledged it by accepting the Briton's arms around him. Francis's whole body ached, but at least it felt good to have a warm body beside him, holding him. He needed Arthur, and Arthur needed him. That was all it took to make the pain obsolete.

So Matthew settled down alone, Arthur and Francis took solace in each other's company, Ludwig was holding Feliciano, Yao and Kiku were sleeping with their backs to each other in separate sleeping bags, Ivan was doing anything he could to keep Alfred warm, deeming it safe enough to allow him to sleep, and Lovino sat alone in his tent, once again, braiding the twine they'd gotten from the safehouse so very long ago. The swirling pattern the twine made as he wound it as well as the repetitive actions it offered, distracting him from his building misery.

He went through all the twine in an hour, and regrettably set the finished product down, examining it. It was certainly one of the more pleasant things he'd seen since the start of the Uprising, though he supposed that was because it had offered a place for most of his sorrows to reside. But there were some that he just couldn't get rid of in such a way.

He rummaged through his pack and located a letter he had received from Toni just before he had gone over to his house before the Uprising (and a pen he'd just happened to bring). He was always telling the man to just text or call him, but for some reason Toni thought it would be better to stuff his mailbox with all sorts of cheesy letters. This one was no different. Lovino turned on a flashlight and began to read.

Mi Tomate Lindo,

It is that time again, amor! I have everything ready for our week together. I know you haven't been responding to my letters, but I hope you read this one. I really miss you, Lovi, and I want to see you.

I know we are not exactly in fit positions to be visiting each other, but just seeing your face will make everything better. Please come over, Lovi. I promise I won't be all romantic like you hate. But how can I help it? You are my amor—my everything. I need you now more than ever, and no matter how much you may deny it, I know you need me. So hurry up and get over here!

Forever yours,

Toni

Lovino swallowed around the prickly lump in his throat and his eyes grew sore trying to suppress tears. He forced himself to turn the paper over and began to scrawl out his feelings on the back. Everything, all of the pain he'd gone through, his regrets, his guilt, the crushing weight of the world. His horrid handwriting only served to remind him just how long it had been since the Uprising began and his life began to unravel.

When he was finished, he signed his name, taking solace in seeing his signature—the one he should have put on his letters back to Toni. He took the paper in his hands and read over Toni's letter, then flipped it around, reading his own script, procrastinating. He must have laid for hours like that until his bladder protested. Sighing, Lovino folded the letter up and set it neatly by his sleeping bag and picked up the twine, deciding it looked good enough to tie around his waist—the burden he had brought upon himself and so should naturally wear.

He pulled open the tent flap and stepped out into the chill of the night, captivated by the Moon and the wide dusting of stars more than ever before.

"It really is a beautiful night," he told himself as he sauntered off toward the trees, leaving footprints of his bare feet in his wake.

Translations:

Dieu merci, tu es bien-Thank God, you're okay

Не оставляй меня-Do not leave me

Tomate lindo-Cute tomato

A Word From the Writer: ... Jeez, the mood ever darkens. Just add a flock of ravens and storm clouds swirling overhead, and you've got yourself a one-way ticket to Sad Valley. Apart from that, yay, we're finally getting somewhere! I admit, I didn't want to have them stop somewhere this time and run into a bad situation there, so I improvised and thus car chase. It's really moving along now, and in a couple more chapters they'll have reached the capital, more or less entirely intact. You'll understand next post.